


No love like your love

by IneffableDemon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Adam Young Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Established Relationship, Fluff, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Poetry, The Them - Freeform, but like in the character, coffee shop AU, depends on what the prompt inspires me, i'm just going with the flow really, just tell me if it is, sometimes they are already in a relationship sometimes they dont, sorry if its confusing, they get drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 10:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 28,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20080879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDemon/pseuds/IneffableDemon
Summary: Month PromptsDay 1: Annoyance.Crowley is annoyed by rain; it reminds him of something (or someone).I am cherrandbelgianchocolate on Tumblr!





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is the first time I've written a fanfic, and English isn't my first language. If there's any tips that you would want to give me, please do! I will get better with time (hopefully).  
I'm starting this as a motivation to start writting again. Someday I will write my own book, but meanwhile I just want to write about these idiots.  
The title is a reference to the song 'Nobody' by Hozier.  
I'll be adding tags

Rain drops made their music against the window. Crowley was lounging on the sofa, his eyes closed. He was annoyed; he hated rain.

It was not only because the presence of rain made inviting his angel to a picnic much more difficult. It reminded him of a specific day.

The option to just miracle the rain away was hanging around his mind. The problem would just vanish, of course, but its effects were already in motion. He would be in a bad mood for the rest of the day (that’s what he was thinking, but in fact he didn’t want to admit that he was going to feel sad) even if the weather improved.

Oh, that day. The Beginning. Not of Humanity (well, yeah, but that doesn’t matter right now) but of his Love.

Crowley got up from the sofa and went to the room where his plants were already trembling. They knew about this pattern; the moment the sweet music of rain began, they knew that certain demon was about to use them to feel slightly better (it never really worked).

He watered his plants. His eyes were also full of water.

How he hated rain. He could almost feel an angelic presence beside him –_white feathers, white innocence- _making him feel worse. He felt restless; he missed his angel too much. Crowley knew it was just stupid to feel like this. He missed his angel in this way every time it rained; with desperation, impatience, melancholy, and annoyance of being so pathetic.

That day in Eden was when he began being this stupid; he fell in Love. And the moment it started, it began raining. That Beginning was followed by years of suffering, of loving, aching, wanting something that he wasn’t going to obtain, and that he didn’t deserved.

After watering his plants, Crowley decided to be patient for a change. He wouldn’t change the weather this time. It wasn’t worth the effort.

He sat on the floor right there, letting the water mister drop. He let himself cry- _you go to fast for me-. _He was tired, so, so tired. Tired of waiting, of being merciful. Of course he was fast, how couldn’t he? Crowley liked to be fast, feeling the pull of gravity in his stomach when he flew or, lately, when he drove; it made him feel alive. Those moments made living worth something. Dangerous things always did –_that’s the way he liked to fall, testing the limits until it was too late- _and that’s why he first talked to the angel. How could he not? The angel was a vision, a dream. Even familiar, somehow; he was reminded of days long past when he looked at those snowy wings.

But then –_oh, then- _he Fell for a second time –_so fast- _and it rained. 

Crowley was angry with himself. This was how the spiral went: sadness, melancholy, desperation, and anger. It felt like his hands were tied. He couldn’t stop himself from Falling, from trying to love his angel as best as he could. He liked to prove to the angel how much he meant for him; but it was useless.

_Okay, time to pull myself together for once. _Crowley stood up, stretched his shoulders a bit, and went to the bathroom to wash his face .

Water was still pouring from the sky. Water was still pouring from his eyes, even though he didn’t want to admit it. The rain and his feelings were tied.

Rain was omnipresent in London. Funny thing that his feelings were omnipresent there too; it was the place where his angel resided.

When Crowley was drying his face, he realised the rain had stopped –_God’s mercy?-_ and the phone rang.

He ran to it. It couldn’t only be certain man-shaped being and Someone knew he wasn’t going to miss that call.

‘Yeah?’- he tried to sound as normal as he could.

‘Crowley? Hello dear! I was calling to- erm, to ask something.’

‘Shoot it.’

‘Well, you see. I noticed that the rain stopped and I was reminded of a proposition I made you some years ago.’

‘Oh, really?’- Crowley smiled. Good things did happen when there was no rain.

‘Yes, well- would you want to go on a picnic with me? I know you don’t really like to eat but I have a bottle of whiskey that we can try together’- the angel sounded nervous. He was really trying to convince Crowley as if he really needed to convince the demon to go somewhere with him. Crowley smile the way he only did when the angel was being especially adorable.

‘Of course. Just tell me when and where.’

‘Are you all right my dear? Your voice sounds... strange. Are you sure you want to do this?’

Crowley swallowed. He wasn’t as good as he wanted to believe at hiding his feelings.

‘Don’t worry angel, I’m fine. It’s just that the rain doesn’t put me in the bests of mood. I’ll be fine.’

Aziraphale chuckled.

‘I had forgotten about that. I completely understand you; the rain makes me feel annoyed and sad. It reminds me of something that I’ve been procrastinating for some time.’

‘Really? And what is it?’

Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s smile thought the phone.

‘Don’t worry. Someday I will tell you. Maybe on a rainy day; just to rewrite history. ‘


	2. Green Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Hurt/Comfort  
Crowley's plants have their own opinion about their master.  
In this one, Crowley and Aziraphale are already in a romantic relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is slighty better written than the first one. If you have any ideas or opinions so I can get better, don't hesitate to share!

The plants were constantly afraid. In fact, they didn’t really feel anything else than fear. Sometimes there were simpler days, were the sun poured from the window and their leaves felt warm and comfortable.

But the majority of their everyday life was just being constantly scared. They had to live with a demon with some issues, and they were the way he liked to pour his anger out of his system. The plants could relate to that; specially a tiny carnivorous plant that liked to torture its food until they died.

That day was one of the good days. The air was full of lazy light coming from the only window of the room. The plants let themselves to relax a little.

The front door opened and closed with a great noise. _Oh, fuck _–thought the plants. Their peaceful day was over. They could feel the demon’s anger.

He walked directly towards the room were the plants were trembling. He already had a water mister in his hands.

‘Today was a VERY, STUPID day. And what was my surprise when I remembered I didn’t water you guys this morning. So really, it’s a perfect situation; I will be able to vent to you now.’

If the plants could cry, they would be by now. They hated living here- okay, yes, they grew green and healthy, but at what cost? They missed the friends that were lost forever to that horrendous noise they heard when the demon decided to dispose of them. Oh, to grow in a forest, wild and untamed...

But in fact, they also liked (just a tiny bit) their demon. Even though he was scary when he interacted with the plants, they could also see him in his everyday life. They could see the light pouring from his eyes and soul when he talked to the Gentle Voice on the phone. Or when he cried while listening to sad songs. How could they hate someone like that for too long?

‘Okay, WHAT EVEN THE FUCK IS THIS?’- The demon looked at the tiny carnivorous plant. It had a brown leaf.

The plants began trembling with more energy. _No, please, not this again._

The demon grabbed the plant.

At that moment, the front door opened again, with more thoughtfulness.

‘I will not let you hurt them!’

The plants gasped. It was the Gentle Voice!

The demon turned around, surprised.

‘Angel? What are you doing here?’

‘Well, dear boy, I couldn’t leave you go home like that and hurt your plants as always when you feel bad.’

The demon made a noise.

‘I don’t _hurt _them. Well, not usually.’

‘I don’t care. You have to stop behaving like this with them. It’s only hurting them, and you, for that matter. I don’t like to interfere with your... methods, but I can see the effect this has on you. It’s not helping you; it’s only making things worse.’

The demon opened his mouth, as if to say something, but he closed it again. He didn’t know what to say. The plants couldn’t believe it. Was he really considering what the Gentle Voice said?

‘It’s just that it helps me vent, somehow, you know. I know it’s not... ideal, but I don’t know what else to do. Sometimes things are too frustrating. You have your books, and you can just lose yourself to them, but what about me? And don’t forget that it actually works, to shout them like this. Look at them. They don’t look so bad, don’t they?’

The demon smirked. It was true that he wasn’t feeling his best, but at least he was proud of his work.

The Gentle Voice (he kinda looked like an angel) sighed again. He looked tired. He took a few steps and took the tiny plant from the demon’s hands.

‘T his one does not look as green. Have you ever tried to be gentle with them, for a change?’

The demon snorted.

‘Gentle? That wouldn’t work; they would be too full of themselves and become lazy!’

The angel smiled, and approached his face to the plant in his hands.

‘Aren’t you a beautiful plant? Look at you, so threatening with your little mouths. I imagine no bug can remain alive around you.’

The tiny plant felt a rush of comfort go through his leaves. No one, ever, recognised its hard work against the bugs pestering the world. It was about time!

The brown leaf immediately acquired a greener colour.

‘See? Praise and love is always the solution. You don’t need to be so hard on them – on you.’

The angel looked smug and loving at the same time. The plants felt what it was to fall in love for the first time, and understood their master more than ever.

Speaking of, their demon master was completely shocked. He looked at the tiny plant (that was standing proudly) and then at the angel. His eyes became softer, as if he was trying not to cry.

‘Trust me.’- the angel kiss the demon’s forehead. – ‘you have enough love in your soul to cherish them and yourself. And well, maybe me too.’ 

The angel smirked and planted a soft kiss in the demon’s lips.


	3. I'll take coffee and talk about nothing, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Coffe shop AU  
Aziraphale and Crowley are human. Aziraphale has a cute coffee shop, and there's a weird, red-haired stranger that doesn't let him enjoy this coffee in peace.

_The Best of Queen _was blasting in a vintage Bentley when a tall, red-haired man closed its door. Aziraphale could see him through the crystal door, sitting on one of the stools besides the counter of his coffee shop (‘_The East Gate’). _He sighed; he REALLY wasn’t in the mood to receive any clients today. He had opened for ten minutes (and being generous) just to maintain appearances. He had prepared a coffee for himself some moments ago with the idea to relax a little, book in hand. It seemed like his plans just went flying through the window.

The red-haired man entered the shop. He had a weird way to walk, like his hips had a mind of their own and had started a revolution, declining to follow the rest of his body. All his clothes were black as night, but somehow stylish, and on top of it all he wore sunglasses. He looked like a weirdo. Aziraphale let out his second sigh in 3 seconds. He didn’t want to interact with any one, least of all some weirdo. Why couldn’t he have his Arabic coffee in peace?

‘We’re going to close in five minutes.’ Aziraphale hoped this could persuade the weirdo to go away.

‘I urgently need some coffee right now. Won’t be long. Pretty please with cherry on top?’ Aziraphale couldn’t believe his eyes. The weirdo was trying to be cute - he had a fake, shy smile. The NERVE.

‘We’re out of coffee, actually. I am very sorry. But we will be glad to have you another day.’ Aziraphale couldn’t help but sound passive-agressive.

The stranger looked at the cup Aziraphale still had in his hands. He slowly smiled, looking like a shark about to catch his pray.

‘You have coffee right there. Actually, it smells really good.’

The weirdo proceeded to snatch Aziraphale’s cup out of his hands. He gulped the coffee that was left in one go, while Aziraphale looked at him in shock. Was this really happening?

The man left some money on the counter.

‘I hope this is enough. See ya!’ – and he left.

Aziraphale immediately stood up and closed the door behind him, changing the sign to ‘Closed’. He couldn’t stand to have any more interactions with other human beings for that day. That had been strange enough. He couldn’t still believe the NERVE, the AUDACITY some people had. _Well, at least he gave me some money. _

Aziraphale returned to the counter and grabbed his book. He needed to rest now than ever.

\---------------

One week had passed since that sunglasses guy had interrupted his rest. He hadn’t had many clients; just the same old woman with wise eyes and fun smile that liked to tell him some kind of warnings – _prophecies?- _every time he served her coffee. She was disturbing, but charming. This time, she had warned him about Russians and knife cuts. She sounded like she was really going mad, this time.

Aziraphale was quite relieved of the lack of incidents that week. He didn’t like people drinking his coffee- he had quite a collection of the best quality beans on the market. He felt like few people could really appreciate (and not to mention prepare) the beans as they should. But he maintained the coffee shop just to have a façade. The idea of just collecting and drinking his coffee for a hobby has preposterous. He liked to think he was humble in his tastes, and that he didn’t go wild with his gluttony. Deep down, he knew the coffee shop was just an excuse, just so he could say that he searched and cared for quality beans for his (nearly non -existing) clients. Still, that did not mean that his shop always had to be opened, or that he needed to have normal opening hours.

He was preparing his favourite coffee (with lots of cream) when the red-haired man entered his shop again. He looked tired and his clothes were in bad shape. He slithered to the counter, and sat in front of Aziraphale. He crossed his arms on the edge, and rested his head on top of them.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he had to say something. He just continued to prepare his coffee. He couldn’t let this man to bother him again- he had his standards.

He heard the weirdo mumble something.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said politely. ‘What was it you were saying?’

‘I said, that one went down like a lead balloon.’

‘Oh. ‘- silence- ‘And what do you mean by that?’

The man looked up and ran his fingers through his hair. The corners of his mouth were pointing down. He really looked vexed.

‘Well, I- it’s just that, well... You see, I have these bosses and they are the worst. You know how it is with bosses sometimes. ‘ -the man sighed dramatically.- ‘I really need something to motivate me right now. I need your strongest coffee, I don’t care which it is.’

Aziraphale glanced at him. He really looked like he needed motivation. What kind of job had this man? His clothes were really torn and full of dirt. Did he get into a fight or something? Aziraphale shook his head. He had been reading too many police books, surely.

He opened his eyes with vigour. He had an idea. Well, the last time he had done something like that it had been more of an experiment than anything, and he wasn’t sure it was going to work. But the red-haired man really looked low in energy, and even though he had been a jerk before, he couldn’t stay mad at him. Not with his dejected face looking at him like that.

‘I know just the thing. And I can use the coffee I was preparing just now, but maybe I’ll take some time to finish it, it’s just the second time I make it. Is that alright?’

‘Yeah, of course. No prob’. If it’s alright with you, since last time you didn’t have much time for what appeared to be your first client in days. You don’t have something better to do, like reading a book?’ the man smirked. He didn’t look like he was being rude- he was just teasing him.

Aziraphale blushed.

‘I’m sorry for that day. I was tired, and I was not in the mood for clients, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you with what I’ll prepare now.’

Sometime later, Aziraphale placed a cup in front of him.

‘Here you go.’

The man took a sip, with the cup between his hands. He had long fingers, with his nails painted black. They kind of look like the hands that could be good playing the guitar. Aziraphale blushed a bit when he realised he had been staring, and he looked away. It was surely not appropriate to stare at your clients, even more when they were depressed!

‘Hmm. Wait, what is this? Does it have alcohol?’ said the red-haired man.

‘Oh, yes. When I saw you looking so down, I thought you could use the extra motivator. It has vodka and coffee-flavoured liquor. And cream, of course, I’m not a savage. Do you like it?’

Aziraphale was suddenly very nervous. His hands fidgeted a bit.

‘It’s bloody delicious. Does it have a name? And why the Hell is it not on the menu? It’s really good.’ The man took another sip, longer this time. Some light returned to his face, and he licked his upper lip.

‘Yes, it has a name. It’s called _Hot White Russian. _‘ His eyes lingered on the man’s upper lip. He still had some cream on it.

‘_Hot White Russian? _Sounds kinda lewd ‘ -Aziraphale blushed- ‘ and you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Do you have name?’ the man made a broad smile that Aziraphale hadn’t seen before. The coffee had really worked on him, and that made Aziraphale feel really happy. Maybe having some new clients from time to time wasn’t so bad.

‘It’s Aziraphale. My mom was kind of weird, I’m afraid.’

‘ _Enchanté. _I’m Crowley.’

Crowley took the last sip of his coffee. Aziraphale’s eyes returned to his upper lip, that it had more cream than ever. Should he say something?

His fingers twitched. He really wanted to do something, but he wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t, isn’t it?

His hand reacted more quickly than his common sense. His thumb caressed gently Crowley’s upper lip, taking the cream with him. He looked at his thumb, unsure of what to do with it. Well, to Hell with it! Aziraphale licked it.

He looked at Crowley. He couldn’t see his eyes, but he could feel him staring. He looked surprised for a moment, and slowly, he smirked. He kind of look proud of himself. That confused Aziraphale. Why was he proud?

Then it struck him. Did Crowley not wipe the cream from his lip on purpose?

Aziraphale blushed furiously. He had never been this embarrassed. Why was it that all of his interactions with Crowley always make him feel surprised and confused?

Crowley squared his shoulders, still smiling proudly. ‘Well, I think I’m gonna go. Here, take this for the delicious coffee. Be sure that I’ll be back, angel’. Crowley gave him some money and began to walk in that ridiculous (but fetching, Aziraphale had to admit) manner of his.

‘Wait, what? Angel?’

Crowley turned around.

‘Yep, angel. Nothing else could blush like that and look innocent after falling for a temptation, wouldn’t you agree?’

With those words, Crowley left the shop.

\---------------

Days passed. Aziraphale couldn’t get Crowley (and more specifically, the cream scene) out of his mind. It was impossible; the red haired man stopped by the shop from time to time, asking for a _Hot White Russian _with a tone that implied something else than the name of a cup of coffee.

Aziraphale found out that he really liked him. They were different, of course- but he liked how they bickered, and Crowley’s strange sense of humour. He learned that he liked to have plants in his apartment, and that he had strong opinions about _Hamlet _and whales.

But what Aziraphale still didn’t know about was his job. It had been multiple times already that Crowley arrived at his shop looking disastrous; his dark clothes stained and torn. Sometimes he even came injured, making Aziraphale panic. It had never been something serious, at least. Those times where when he saw Crowley being most dejected. He became silent, and evaded Aziraphale’s questions. All that Aziraphale could do was to close his shop, and to remain by his side until he wanted to talk again. But he never talked about his job.

Aziraphale could only wonder. Was Crowley in some kind of band? Was he in some kind of trouble? Could he do anything to help him?

One day, something happened. Aziraphale had been fearing this. He couldn’t help but imagine that maybe someday Crowley would get himself in serious trouble.

It was already late in the afternoon. Aziraphale had already closed (well, he didn’t really open that day) and was sitting by the counter reading, like he was when he had first met Crowley.

He heard a sudden bang on the door. Someone was trying to open it without realising the door was closed. Aziraphale looked up, and saw Crowley through the crystal of the door. He looked as bad as he had never seen him; he had blood in his clothes his hands were clutching his left side.

Aziraphale rushed to open the door for him. When he did, Crowley’s legs gave out, and he helped him reach a chair, while Crowley groaned. He really looked like he was in huge pain.

‘Crowley? What the Hell has happened? Are you injured?’

Crowley’s hands left his side for a moment, to show Aziraphale his injury. It was full of blood, but Aziraphale could see that it looked like a knife cut.

‘Things went worse than I thought this time. I’m so stupid’- Crowley laughed sarcastically- ‘I shouldn’t have trusted them.’

‘Them? Who?’

‘The Demons. Those fucking criminals.’ Crowley’s voice sounded more tired than angry.

‘Wait. First things first. I can’t have you bleeding out in my shop.’ Aziraphale rushed to the back door, where he kept his First Aid supplies. He returned with the box in his hands.

Crowley had already removed his jacket and shirt full of blood. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare at his torso for a bit until he regained his sense. It was nor the time, nor the place to contemplate his friend. He sat down on the floor, near Crowley’s injured side. He began to pull out what he was going to need, and began to carefully clean the injury. Luckily, it had stopped bleeding. When it was cleaned and disinfected, he began to put a bandage on it.

‘Care to explain the situation? And I beg you, please, to go to a hospital to have this checked.’

Crowley cleared his throat. For some reason, he looked embarrassed.

‘It was The Demons. I’m, well, I’m a part of them. A bad decision, really. I didn’t really mean to join them, you know. I just hung around with bad companies, and one thing led to the other.’

‘The Demons? I never heard of them.’

‘Of course not’- Crowley made a tiny smile that made Aziraphale’s heart flutter- ‘you’re an angel, after all.’

Aziraphale cleared his throat. He was the one being embarrassed now. He continued to put bandages.

‘Erm, what were you saying?’

‘One of my bosses, Beelzebub, had ordered me to do a job. A really nasty one. I immediately refused, but they didn’t look happy after that. I’m so stupid; it was so obvious they weren’t going to just let me be. Tonight they ambushed me; someone had a knife.’

‘Dear Lord. How could they do something like that? You surely don’t deserve this. You should stop hanging around with them.’ Aziraphale was astonished. He knew there were bad people and criminals in this world (he was not that innocent), but actually seeing someone getting injured because of that, someone he cared about, was really different.

Crowley made a strange noise, as if he tried to laugh sarcastically but pain had stopped him midway. ‘I’m not a good person. Beelz’s job was really bad and I refused, but that doesn’t mean I have been a saint all my life.’

‘I suppose so. But, dear, can’t you see that deep down, you’re actually a nice person-‘

He was cut by Crowley, which had suddenly stood up and slammed Aziraphale unto the floor where he had being sitting.

‘SHUT IT! I’m a Demon, I’m not nice!’

Crowley’s lips were really, really closed to his lips. He could feel, more than hear, the words that were shouted at him. In fact, Aziraphale wasn’t really paying attention – all he had in mind was the tiny space between them.

Crowley was perched on top of him. He was on his knees, which were pressing on Aziraphale’s sides. His hands were clutching his collar, and Crowley’s nose was brushing his.

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered to his lips, once again. He couldn’t help it- they were so close. Even though Crowley looked like a disaster, he was still attractive (should be illegal) and his torso was nude.

Crowley has silent. He looked like he had also realised the situation he had provoked – he no longer seem angry. Aziraphale, more than ever, wished he didn’t wear sunglasses. Were his eyes travelling to Aziraphale’s lips, as he was also doing? Was he the only one feeling like this?

Crowley’s hands relaxed. For a moment, Aziraphale thought that he was going to pull away, and he felt a rush of disappointment in the pit of his stomach - but Crowley began to approach his lips, slowly making them kiss –

‘Angel? Angel, where are you?’

Aziraphale yelped, and his plume fell on top of the notebook where he had been scribbling furiously, just moments ago. The plume had stained the page with ink, but it didn’t look too serious – it hadn’t been on the place where he had written. Aziraphale, with rapid movements, launched the notebook to the sofa in front of him, and grabbed the nearest book on his desk, opening it at random.

‘In the back room, my dear!’

He could hear the demon’s footsteps getting closer. His heart drummed against his ribs. He had been nearly found out. It was a miracle that Crowley had asked for him before entering. If he had caught him, well- it would’ve been really hard to explain what he was doing.

Crowley entered the room, and approached his angel to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He frowned. Aziraphale’s hands were stained with ink, but he was not holding a notebook or something he could write on, only one of his loved books. The ink looked dark and fresh.

He shrugged. He knew he was never going to understand completely Aziraphale’s supposed job at the library.

He walked towards the nearest sofa and let gravity pull him towards it. He landed painfully on something, and he grabbed it with an exasperated movement of his wrist. He looked at it, confused. It looked like a notebook, if notebooks could look that old and not disintegrate.

He looked at Aziraphale and -_oh, rejoice! - _he had that look that screamed Guilty**™. **He smirked, and opened it. It had something written in that strange looking thing that Aziraphale said was his handwriting. He began to read it.

The more he proceeded into the story, the more he could understand how red his angel looked. When he finished, he slowly stood up and walked towards Aziraphale, that look like someone that wanted to be discorporated on the spot.

‘Well, well, angel. I didn’t know your passion for literature went beyond to just reading it.’ Crowley tried to sound cool, but he had never felt so embarrassed and flattered in his immortal life.

‘Don’t make fun of me, dear, please. It’s only something I read on the Internet the other day. You know how you always encourage me to catch up with the times, so I brought my computer back to life. I found out that people like to write stories about characters or themselves. And I found it really interesting... I couldn’t resist the temptation.’ Aziraphale looked so embarrassed and guilty, fidgeting on his seat. It was adorable.

Crowley leaned until his mouth was near his angel’s ear, and when he spoke, his voice was low.

‘Angel, any time you have some kind of fantasy that you want me to re-enact, you just have to tell me. I’ll be sure to indulge you.’

Aziraphale’s eyes shone. He smiled, all shyness gone.

‘Is that a promise?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had SO MUCH fun writing this. Since Michael Sheen showed an interest in fics, I couldn't help but imagine Aziraphale writing one. And of course, being such a fanboy that he couldn't resist to write Agnes Nutter in it.   
And yes, Aziraphale yeeted the notebook. I was thinking of, as Crowley, yeeted the ice cream when he saw Crowley-as-Aziraphale being abducted.   
The title is based in the song 'Old friend', by Mitski.   
I found about the Hot White Russian coffee on Google, if you want to go look a it.


	4. The Land between Solar Systems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: road trip  
There’s a certain map that Crowley has used a lot. Its paper crumbles at the tiniest of touches; it is 6000 years old. Crowley knows its curves and traces by heart. It is deeply engraved in his memory, born by it, after all.  
He knows this map better than anything in the world. It doesn’t really exist, not in the physical plane, at least, but it grows and expands the more he gets to live on Earth. The centre, the capital of it all, is Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title was inspired by the song 'The Land between Solar Systems', by múm. Yes, I know I always use songs and lyrics as titles, it's the perk of always listening to music while writing.

Let’s plan a road trip. We will need a map and some patience.  
Crowley has always hated planning, but he is quite familiar with maps and road trips. He loves to drive for hours; mountains and lakes rapidly passing by. He likes the stability that comes when travelling for a long time; being, at once, in many places. The familiar stability of instability. It reminds him of certain celestial bodies he helped to create, always exploding and expanding, not thinking about their destination.   
Crowley thinks about maps a lot. The way a pencil traces though paper, drawing which things are near, and others that are too far apart to know each other. He likes to measure the exact distance bodies are to one another, what it would take to finally meet them. He has time, and a car; he thinks he doesn’t really need anything else.  
There’s a certain map that he has used a lot. Its paper crumbles at the tiniest of touches; it is 6000 years old. Crowley knows its curves and traces by heart. It is deeply engraved in his memory, born by it, after all.  
It’s a map made of experiences. Of what ifs, of maybes. I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you wanna go. There are crêpes on one side; you can always stop to see Hamlet on the way. In one precious corner are the angel’s eyes, glistening the way they do when he’s drunk. Crowley likes to go back, way back; he does enjoy long road trips. He goes all the way to the Beginning; there’s a stressed angel waiting for him. He fusses about a flaming sword, worried about a pair of humans (the first ones, but that doesn’t really matter. It’s all about empathy, after all). Crowley visits that special moment, when he realizes that this angel is a peculiar one. He is different. Crowley is surprised, bewildered; maybe he doesn’t have to be so alone after all.  
Sometimes he doesn’t need to go all that way; he just stays closer to the present. He can think of all the times they have gotten drunk together – dolphins, whales, Kraken. Maybe he should invest some time studying marine biology -. He thinks about how the angel’s coat feels in his hands when he pushes him unto the wall. He could smell him – old books, hot chocolate, and something gentle that reminds him of the way light shines through tree leaves in good days-. He can’t stop visiting this particular place, this particular memory, especially when he is half asleep and his subconscious yearns to find comfort.   
Not all road trips are for pleasure. Crowley also likes to tortures himself, going through some places in his map that shouldn’t be so visited. He is fully aware of this, but he just can’t stop it. He betrays his better judgement one time and again, always going back to a stupid gazebo – it had to be his invention. The things that he comes up to torture humans always rebound and torture him instead. It was meant to happen-. That time, as always, he had been full of desire to take on a trip, to go away and escape. The thing that was different then was that he actually voiced one of his deepest desires; he didn’t want to travel alone.   
The way he was rejected still lingered on his skin, making him stay up at night. One part of him was afraid that, if he fell asleep, he wouldn’t wake up in time anymore. He had fallen asleep once, after an argument with his angel. He had woken up again the next century. He couldn’t let it happen again; he had a map to continue.   
He also tended to stop midway, between places, just to stretch his long legs. He thinks about Aziraphale eating at the Ritz, the way his eyes shine when there is a new dessert to try. The way his mouth drops when he wants Crowley to do something nice for him, as if he is trying to be upset and adorable at the same time –he is so good at it-. Crowley thinks about the way he moves his hands while talking to him. The way he folds them when he thinks about his celestial duties. They whispered about hope, hope that Crowley was special to him, in some way.   
Crowley realises this is just another way of torturing himself. He doesn’t mind. He makes this road trips knowing full well what he is doing, even if he is improvising all of it. He never really knows how long he will be out, how far away he will dare to go that day.   
He knows this map better than anything in the world. It doesn’t really exist, not in the physical plane, at least, but it grows and expands the more he gets to live on Earth. The centre, the capital of it all, is Aziraphale.   
If he was being honest, he didn’t like to think of Aziraphale as a mere capital. He wants him to be something else, to exist as something else in his mind.  
He wants him to be a map. A separate map. That way, he could go on road trips, visit places that for now he can only imagine. Stop by his lips, caress his eyelids. He had always been enticed by his legs – he died to visit them some day, to be able to explore Aziraphale in his totality. It was a beautiful dream.  
He tends to wonder about what kind of clothes would be appropriate. That’s the thing about road trips; you can never be sure about where you will end; and therefore you can only improvise your clothes. In his best dreams he didn’t need many clothes to visit Aziraphale, and even if he is an optimistic at heart, his brain was more realistic. So he changed his clothes, his hairstyle, and his sunglasses. He liked to watch for Aziraphale’s reaction, never finding one, but never stopping to continually change.   
His maps are made of hope and impossible wishes, or that is what Crowley thinks. He could never know that, no too far away, an angel also dreamt.


	5. Sweet Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Sound

Aziraphale loved music. He knew he had an outdated taste, but that had never bothered him (it bothered a certain demon more). Lately he didn’t listen to it much, though.  
He had better music to enjoy.  
For example, he would change anything by Mozart just to listen to the noise some snake-skin boots made on the parquet. Nothing sounded better than the way the door bell did when Crowley entered the bookshop, like it was as happy as Aziraphale to hear it.  
No violin could interpret the sound of Crowley’s laugh, so why bother with music?  
No composer could capture the way his voice changed when he was trying to tempt the angel, as if he didn’t know how easy it was for Aziraphale to be tempted.  
No singer could be as dramatic as Crowley snapping his fingers.  
There was also the soundless music around the demon. Aziraphale could nearly hear symphonies when Crowley smiled at him. He loved the little trumpets that sounded in his mind when their fingers brushed while sharing a bottle of wine. He even loved the dark noise around Crowley when he was angry.  
What was the point of listening to music, if he could just listen to the sweetest song of them all? When all he needed to do was to land his ear to Crowley’s chest, and listen to his heartbeat?

_You and me. Melody._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very inspired today, so it ended up being shorter than intended. I hope tomorrow I'll find my muse.


	6. The Demon's Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Kids  
Crowley has been absent lately, and he has been hanging around the Them a lot. Aziraphale thinks they are plotting something.

Crowley wasn’t nice. Nope, not at all. He was a demon after all; he had a reputation to maintain. He had a soft spot for some things, though.  
He was soft for his angel. It was an open secret. Even Aziraphale was aware of it and took advantage of it (as any good bastard would do).  
He also liked kids. He had never been one, as the Almighty just created him from the ether looking like an adult already (pertaining his human- shaped form). But he couldn’t be mean to children; they’re where the most naturally mischievous creatures he knew. They weren’t exactly evil, but they had a wonderful tendency to make his job as a demon easier. Kids practically didn’t need to be tempted to cloud someone’s day.  
This was the reason as to why he instantly loved the Them. How couldn’t he? They were innocent, yes; but they liked to question everything, they liked to bother the adults as much as they could with clever little plans; and even though they were intelligent (ones more than others, he had to admit) they enjoyed doing stupid things, so they were always fun.  
Aziraphale knew all of this, and he saw how Crowley and the Them took a liking to each other. He knew that they couldn’t be up to no good every time he saw them together. He was fond of Crowley’s sweet side with kids, but he didn’t know if he ought to be worried when Crowley, with a smirk on his face, drove to Tadfield to see the kids. He wasn’t worried for the Them; he was obviously more worried for the rest of the human beings that had to suffer their pranks.  
Well, at least Crowley seemed to have fun and it occupied his mind after the events of the Armaggedon’t. The first days he had been restless; he didn’t stop pacing around the bookshop, scaring the only plant Aziraphale owned (a present from Crowley). One day, Crowley received a message, and with a smile he had gone to Tadfield. Since then, Crowley and the kids spent some time together every week. For the looks of it, it seemed that Crowley helped them with their adventures and mischief. It was only normal, Aziraphale thought, for Crowley to channel his inner demon somehow; he wasn’t working for Hell anymore, but habits die hard. This way, he wasn’t actually working for Down Below, but he could still have some fun plotting not-so-evil deeds.  
But lately, he had been spending more time with the Them than with Aziraphale.  
He wasn’t jealous; he was not the jealous type. Aziraphale was only worried about something in particular: why didn’t Crowley share with him their plans? He was afraid that Crowley didn’t share his experience because he thought an angel couldn’t be naughty from time to time. He didn’t want to participate, exactly, but he wanted Crowley to share his amusement with him; that he explained their plans, just as Aziraphale had always told Crowley about his new book acquisitions.  
Aziraphale had decided that he wouldn’t meddle or ask Crowley about it. He would just wait for when the demon was prepared to share it with him. But the angel couldn’t help but miss him. He had grown used to Crowley’s presence around him (quite literally; Crowley was a hugger) and now that he saw him less it made him feel lonely. He had even increased the amount of hot chocolate he took during the day. It made him feel less cold, now that he was denied the demon’s company.  
The majority of days, Crowley would get home late at night, and after stealing a kiss from Aziraphale, he would just go straight to bed, tired.  
Months passed; things didn’t seem like they were going to change. Crowley looked happy, like he was having real fun, and his conduct with Aziraphale hadn’t change a bit. Aziraphale was happy to see the demon having fun; it reminded him of when Crowley used to go to _Queen_’ concerts, back in the day. Even though Crowley spent so much time with the kids, they still when to dates and had some time alone together. Aziraphale had concluded that, in fact, he didn’t need to worry so much; he _knew_ he could trust Crowley with his eyes closed. He knew that Crowley would end up telling him what everything was about.  
There was another emotion that was overcoming his soul: curiosity. He just couldn’t help it. Crowley was spending entire months planning and preparing something with dedication. He had only ever done that a couple of times in history, as far as Aziraphale could remember. He remembered vividly when Crowley planned his M25 Evil Deed; he also had spent months working on it. But now things were different; he didn’t really need to put so much work in doing pranks with kids, didn’t he?  
When 4 months had passed, Aziraphale arrived to his limit. He had never been patient when he was curious, and the wait was killing him. He needed to know right at that instant what was going on.  
That morning, while Crowley was till sleeping, Aziraphale wrote him a note saying that he was going to visit some bookseller to talk about the terms of a purchase Aziraphale had recently been talking about (in fact he did have an appointment of this nature, but for the next day, so it wasn’t really a lie). He then proceeded to hide inside the Bentley’s trunk. It was not comfortable, but he could just miracle away the muscle pain.  
After twenty minutes or so, he finally heard Crowley entering the car and putting it into motion.  
During the trip, Aziraphale began to feel restless. Had this been a good idea? He just felt stupid, but it was too late- he had to follow through with this plan until the end.  
Finally, he felt how the car stopped and Crowley descending the car. He waited a couple of minutes, making time for Crowley to walk away. Then, he finally exited the car. He stretched a little, miracling away all lingering pain, and took a look at his surroundings.  
He was, as expected, in Tadfield. He was near a forest, to be precise. There was a path entering it and he could see, in the distance, someone wearing black walking away. He followed him without hesitation.  
Aziraphale was excited. He had always loved spies’ stories; he had even fallen into trouble in the 1940s because of it. Just like in spies’ book, he tried to be as quiet as he could while walking. He glared at the leaves at his feet if they began to crunch too loudly.  
He could see Crowley arriving at a place with a big hole in the ground. He remembered then that Crowley had talked about this place before- the Pit, the place where the Them liked to have their reunions.  
Aziraphale quickly hid behind a tree. He saw Crowley approaching the Them (they seemed to have arrived before him). Aziraphale couldn’t hear what they were saying from that distance. He tried to run to a tree nearer to them when they seemed distracted, but tripped on a branch and fell face first.  
Everyone fell silent. Aziraphale didn’t get up at once- he was too embarrassed and didn’t want to show his face. He felt some gentle and known hands help him to get up; it was obviously Crowley. He looked away from him, his face flushed. How could he explain the situation?  
‘Angel? What are you doing here?’  
Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no word came out of it. He didn’t know what to say. He looked the demon in the face this time, and he noticed something. Crowley looked... nervous?  
‘I think I should be the one asking that. You’ve been coming here for months, what are you all planning? I want a share of the fun too.’  
Crowley looked even more nervous. The Them were looking at everything but Aziraphale. Adam stepped towards him, looking calmer than the rest.  
‘Well, you see; Crowley wanted to give you a small surprise. He came up with the idea some days after the End of the World, but he needed some help, so he came to us.’  
‘A surprise?’ Of all the things Aziraphale expected, that wasn’t one of them. He knew that their plans were going to be a surprise, sure, but for the people that were going to be pranked. Aziraphale was now suspicious.  
‘What kind of surprise?’  
Crowley smiled at that, still a little bit nervous.  
‘I wanted to learn how to dance the gavotte for you, but we were going to need more people (and some flowers) for that. These past months we’ve been practicing and I’ve also been procuring us the flowers.’ He was now looking a bit proud.  
Aziraphale was speechless again. He was flustered for the second time that day, all his face turned red. Crowley saw that, and reddened a bit too.  
‘But we’re really late in schedule because certain someone is REALLY bad at dancing. It’s like his legs have a mind of their own.’- Pepper said.  
Crowley straightened his back. ‘If you’re talking about me, you should know that my legs work jus’ fine.’  
‘This is... this is so lovely. I mean, the gavotte?’ – Aziraphale chuckled- ‘It has been so many years since I last danced it... I was so sad when people stopped seeing how wonderful it was.’  
He approached Crowley. ‘Thank you, my dear’- and he kissed him on the cheek, making the demon blush even harder, and the kids looked at each other in amusement.


	7. Let me show you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: sports  
Aziraphale is thinking about doing some exercise because of Gabriel's hurtful words towards his gut. Crowley wants to show him how stupid Gabriel was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday I had a bad day so I couldn't finish the chapter on time. I'm posting it today, and when I finish today's prompt I will post it too.

_"Oh good God you’re a sweet thing"_

Aziraphale was soft. He has always known this, but he wasn’t particularly worried about it. He liked to be soft, and he didn’t have a problem with being a bastard when the situation called for it.

He also had a soft body. He felt proud of this body; it had stuck with him for thousands of years, and it was as comfortable as a sofa where you’ve been having naps all your life. He also liked to indulge his body as much as he could, and the satisfaction that came with it always made him happy.

But lately, he could not stop thinking about Gabriel’s words. He knew he wasn’t made for war (he still didn’t understand why God had given him a sword, of all things), so he hadn’t really needed to train and learn how to fight. Maybe he could have needed that knowledge if Crowley had been a fighting Adversary, but thank God (or not? Who knew nowadays) it had never come to that.

Gabriel had a well trained and cultivated body.He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious; should he get into sports, and do some exercise?

He was afraid of mentioning it to Crowley. He knew that he probably didn’t mind Aziraphale’s body, but what if he suddenly agreed with Gabriel? That would destroy him. Maybe he ought to look into gyms near his bookshop.

Aziraphale was sitting on his armchair in the bookshop, thinking all of this, when Crowley entered and immediately walked towards him swinging his waist in the usual way.

‘Hello angel. Quick question. Are you thinking of doing something stupid?’ Crowley was standing in front of him, arms crossed and eyebrows lifted.

Aziraphale immediately refused to look at him, and chose to look at his hands instead.

‘It’s so stupid it doesn’t need to be discussed, really. No need to worry about it.’ Aziraphale frowned. Wait a minute. ‘And how do you know I’ve been thinking of something stupid?’

Crowley scoffed. ‘I have a tingling in my mind every time you go Moron-Mode. How on Earth do you think I’ve always known that I have to come and save you?’

Crowley sat down on the armchair’s arm. When he spoke, his voice was softer. ‘What’s going on? I promise you I won’t laugh at you or anything. Just get it out of your chest.’

Aziraphale gulped, and stopped fidgeting, but kept looking at his hands instead of Crowley’s concerned face.

‘Before the End of the World I talked to Gabriel. He said that I had to... lose my gut, or something like that.’ Crowley growled. ‘I’ve never really been conscious of it, but for some reason his words stuck with me. Do you think I should start going to the gym or something?’

Crowley stood up suddenly, startling Aziraphale. He kneeled in front of him, and took off his glasses, and put them inside a pocket in his jacket. Aziraphale couldn’t help but look into his eyes. They were so hypnotizing. Crowley looked really serious, and Aziraphale wondered what was going on behind those eyes.

‘Azirapahle.’ The way Crowley said his name made the angel shiver. ‘Do you realize how beautiful you are? I love your softness. If you’re asking me, you don’t need to change anything about you if you don’t want. Let me show you.’

He took Aziraphale’s right arm, with a question in his eyes. Aziraphale nodded, mesmerized. Crowley traced his fingers softly through Aziraphale’s wrist, all the way up to his shoulder with a love and dedication that made Aziraphale’s eyes wet. Crowley touched his rounded upper arm with reverence and a soft smile in his lips He took his time tracing his fingers on his arm. His fingers slowly returned to his wrist, and he approached it to his lips. He kissed it softly, looking into Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale could feel his lips on his bare skin, on his rapid pulse.

Aziraphale couldn’t take his eyes off him. Crowley wasn’t being seductive, precisely, at least not on purpose. He was just showing Aziraphale his love, how much he thought Gabriel’s word were stupid, how much he disagreed with him.

Crowley continued kissing his arm in the places his fingers had previously touched through Aziraphale’s clothes. When he arrived to his shoulder (he was practically standing up already), he approached his face to Aziraphale’s face and slowly kissed Aziraphale on the lips. Aziraphale was smiling. He felt how Crowley touched his belly with reverence, like he couldn’t believe that his angel was allowing him to do that; to cherish him and love him. He touched him like he was something fragile and precious, and it made Aziraphale feel all mushy inside.

Crowley broke the kiss, and cupped the angel’s face with his hands. He looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Was I pretty clear?’

Aziraphale couldn’t stop smiling.

‘Yes, my dear.’


	8. Into the night sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Colours  
Crowley can still remember the sensation of creating stars, their light and colour. But everything was tangled with his fall.

_"I shall raise my hand up into the night, into the night sky _

_And count the stars _

_That are shining in your eye _

_Just to dig it all and not to wonder _

_That would be fine"_

Crowley’s hands had been once full of colour and light. He had played with them as he pleased with a smile in his eyes. He had filled all the unnamed darkness before him with them, changing their shape, pouring his being into them. Sleep hadn’t yet been invented, but he had already learnt to dream. He had liked to close his eyes and dream about unborn stars, nebulas, planets. When he opened them, his fingers had shone, ready to begin creating.

He had been able to feel Her voice whispering ideas in his mind and inspiring him, pouring Her love into his creations, alongside his own; he could see how it all tangled up and created art.

He still remembered that feeling. The feeling of Creation; of colour pouring from his being; the way light and darkness danced around him. Being part of something so utterly beautiful.

He still remembered, even after the Fall.

There had been colours then too, and they had been painfully familiar. He had been falling through the same space where he had being creating; he had been surrounded by the same dance of light and darkness.

While he Fell, wings burning, he had felt his fingers trying to grasp something, anything. He had only felt colours slipping between them, abandoning him forever, leaving him empty and dark. What was space to him when he could feel unborn stars dying inside him?

He had thought that it had been beyond cruel. He had to fall without anyone to catch him; he had to fall watching his own creations surrounding him, taking a distance from him, watching him from above with a look of disgust. His own love, not only Her’s, casting him aside. For the first time, he had felt truly cold and alone.

There came a time when there was only one colour he could see.

Red.

Red were his wings, once white. Red was the fire that had been consuming them and his soul. His eyes had became blind with it; all types of reds dancing before his eyes, engulfing him, suffocating him. He remembered that he had been able, sometimes, to see orange and yellow; but at that point he had already forgotten what they meant.

He could see the ashes that his wings left behind covering his vision. Despite the feeling that his memories were being burnt away, he could still remember enough to think that they painfully looked like stars.

But he had known he was never going to feel again their light licking his fingers; he could never again invent a colour to match with a new star.

The only thing he had left was red, darkness and pain. His wings, covered with ash and mistakes. His eyes blinded, his mind tortured and torn apart from Her love.

He knew that at some point he had landed on Hell. He didn’t really remember the collision; he had been drowning in pain already, so he couldn’t really feel it. Where there’s an infinite amount of suffering, a little more pain changed nothing.

Hell was as empty and cold as he felt.

The first time he had seen his appearance, he hadn’t been able to do anything but laugh. Oh, the Lord was merciless and cruel. Her love hadn’t even left a linger of a taste in his mind.

When he looked at himself, he could see his Fall imprinted all over him. Just like his wings had been, just like his last moments between the stars, those lasts colours were now part of him.

Black were his burnt wings, just like the darkness that had surrounded him.

Red was his hair, just like the fire that had drowned him in despair.

Yellow were his eyes, like the light that had casted him aside.

He had been the first creature to dream; now only nightmares were there to catch him when he Fell asleep.

He was now living with the curse of not remembering how other colours looked like. Only black, red and yellow danced in the reflection of his glasses.

\---

He woke up screaming. Sweat ran down his spine. His chest moved quickly, making him feel like he was going to faint and Fall into the darkness again. His fingers hurt; he was clutching the bed sheets too hard.

Soft, kind hands held him together; he felt them on his chest, on his shoulders, on his face, building him again, uniting the pieces.

‘It’s alright darling. It’s gone, it’s over. It was only a nightmare. I’m here with you now, love.’

Crowley looked at his angel’s eyes. They were full of light and love, and understanding.

They were also full of colour, just like the last stars he had made. Those eyes still looked like the first time he had seen them and taken his breath away.

Maybe now he couldn’t really see colours per se; but he could remember them, feel them when he looked at Aziraphale.

And that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from 'Sweet Thing' by Hozier.


	9. So be it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9: Time Travel

_"Remember me, love, when I am reborn _

_As a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn"_

He knew he could have just changed how things had happened.

Turn back into the past, turn all the way back. Change the present and the future.

Take the time in his fists and pull.

Change his words; replace them with kisses and unchained hands.

Sorry blue eyes would transform in loving ones.

He would have never been too fast for him. They would have been in the same pace.

How everything could have turned out if he had kissed an angel in a nameless church?

His mind wondered trough the labyrinth of time.

His fingers, twitching, wishing to snap and call his demonic power.

His eyes, fully yellow, fully monster.

But he wasn’t. Not truly.

He would never change things. He could, he had the power within him. The imagination.

But he didn’t wished to. He cherished history just as it was.

He accepted the fact that he was condemned to be steps ahead of the angel.

He accepted that maybe he would never get what he wished and needed.

Because he loved the angel just as he was.

If he had to suffer and wait for the rest of time, so be it.

He would wait.

So be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from 'Shrike' by Hozier. Yes, I'm going full Hozier lately, I'm just so emotional about his songs.  
I had a completely different idea for this chapter, but it turned out like this. It's more of the written emotion of my original idea. I'm not sure I like it, but I'll leave as it is.


	10. Let me wander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: Dark AU
> 
> What if?

We sometimes let our minds wander and imagine. Ask questions, have doubts.

_What if...?_

What if white and shiny wings were instead black as poison?

What if blue and angelic eyes were dark and demonic?

What if a fluffy smile had sharp teeth? What if his hands gestured into temptation?

Some creatures are made to question. Would everything have happened just the same if things were inverted?

Crowley was one of those creatures. He sometimes looked at the angel and wondered. What would have happened it if it was him the angel, and Aziraphale the demon?

He posed the angel his question. He liked that he could always tell the angel about his doubts and conspiracy theories without shame and fear of repercussion. And, in fact, sometimes Aziraphale would have doubts of his own (this always came with dangerous amounts of alcohol).

When Aziraphale heard his doubt, he laughed wholeheartedly, confusing Crowley. The angel was sitting beside him on a sofa, and he took his hand and looked him in the eyes. He still had a smile occupying all of his face. Crowley flinched at the sudden contact.

‘I think things probably would have happened just the same. I don’t think we would have been any good in our jobs either. But, darling, I think you wouldn’t have been so blind.’ Crowley was even more confused.

Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s chest.

‘You would have been able to feel that I have always loved you. Even when I said I didn’t.’

Aziraphale smiled shyly.

And Crowley wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much to do today, so it's a short one again. Not exactly a dark AU per se (I'm not entirely sure what it is either so I just improvised)  
I don't think I made it clear but in this they're not in a relationship when Crowley asks him that.


	11. Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11: Whump

That day in France hadn’t been the first time Aziraphale had been imprisoned. He was used to having chains grounding him, heavy weight on his wrists. At least human scuffs hadn’t hurt his skin, they had only been annoying and irritating. What’s more, he only had to wait for the demon to rescue him so they could go eat some crepes.

The other times he had been imprisoned Crowley hadn’t been able to come to his rescue. It had been in Heaven after all.

Heaven wasn’t as cruel as Hell, that much was clear. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t punish when necessary.

They normally sent rude notes, it’s true. But before that they weren’t as delicate. It’s something easy to realize when paying attention to their methods during the Rebellion; how they slayed their own brothers and sisters to oblivion.

Aziraphale could remember every single punishment he had suffered. He had been one of the most tortured angels on Heaven (without counting the fallen ones) because of his long stay at Earth, when it was still fairly new. The archangels were scared Aziraphale would get _contaminated _with human’s sins. They remembered too clearly how the first humans had fallen so easily to temptation; they were afraid Aziraphale could bring that inclination to them, and spread it across Heaven. Aziraphale was disposable so it had been easy for them to send him with the sinners and try to bring them to good. He had been like the bearer of an illness.

They had known about Aziraphale and Crowley’s first conversation. That had been the motive behind the first torture.

It is not known that there is also darkness living in Heaven. Aziraphale is painfully familiar with it. He had been chained there, metal surrounding his throat, while his feathers were plugged by angels.

They had said that in that way, his feathers would grow without humanity’s contamination. Only if they grew in Heaven they could be perfectly sure about their purity.

Aziraphale still has the reflex of touching his throat when he sees Gabriel angry.

Sometimes, his feathers itch when he indulges himself to more cake than he should.

Sometimes, he wakes up with blood-stained feathers in his hands.

And he has scars, of course. He is ashamed of them; it’s the proof he isn’t a good angel after all. He always covers them with long sleeves and bowties, even knowing that no one that saw them would know what they meant. Not even Crowley.

He just can’t stand looking at them.

When Crowley and he move to a pretty cottage at the South Downs, he realizes something: it will be harder than ever to hide the bloody feathers; the screams to which he awakens to when he finally lets himself sleep; how he never shows his throat.

Thousand years ago he used a miracle to hide it, to make the scars invisible, but since he began wearing bowties he’s not used to maintain a miracle constantly.

The sad thing, he realizes, is that he isn’t the only one to wake up screaming.

He’s not the only one with scars.

_So, love, let me kiss your pain goodbye. Let me substitute pain with pleasure on your skin. _

_‘And it's easy done_  
Our little remedy  
And the reason comes 

_on the common tongue _

_of your loving me’_


	12. I didn't know I had a dream. I didn't know until I saw you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12: Dream

Crowley dreamt about sunshine and cakes.

Aziraphale dreamt about kisses on knuckles and dandelions.

Adam dreamt about Dog and going to school (he didn’t want to, as any normal kid).

Pepper dreamt about being a doctor and winning battles against War and Death.

Brian dreamt about thousands of ice cream flavours. The ice cream never ended and never melted.

Wensleydale dreamt about being a chef and opening a restaurant.

Dog dreamt about cats.

Newt dreamt about building a computer that could only obey and work for him.

Anathema dreamt about a bicycle that could fly.

Madame Tracy dreamt about witchfinders.

Mr Shadwell dreamt about witches.

And God dreamt about a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's best to keep things simple. And to dream whatever we like best (or whoever we like best. or things we associate them with)


	13. Consume me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 13: Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I desire
> 
> And I crave.
> 
> -Sappho, 10.

Feelings are something really curious. They develop and can be soft but passionate, like tender flames on one’s skin; they could be suffocating and your doom.

Feelings could become part of you –_a second skin- _if your mind is permanently obsessed with them.

How do feelings age when they have 6000 years to grow? Do they wither? Do they kill themselves? Or drown you with wine (until you can feel drops of alcohol descending your bare throat, were you wished there were kisses)?

_Don’t you hear me howling?_

And can’t you see my arms shaped like you but empty?

Oh the emptiness, envolving him better than any wings against the storm.

And they were all drowning and drowning, their lungs still (they didn’t need to breathe) even though they were suffocating.

And they were restless (they didn’t need to sleep) but still they yearned comfort.

And they wrote poems, sliding them under the other’s door, but burning them before the centre of their desires could read their words of love.

And both of them danced alone in the darkness.

Their eyes were always seeking. Looking for the same wild look in the other. But they were blind; they couldn’t see how they were the mirror of the other.

And their hearts bled.

And their feelings danced and danced across years and ages; they invited each other to eat, and tempt, and do good; they found each other in different countries, attracting one another like they were meant to be.

Sometimes their feelings found one another in the form of a kiss on the cheek, of a barely contended smile, of patience and coins being tossed. Sometimes they hide from one another in the form of words that knew would be hurtful but were pronounced either way.

Let’s untangle this mess; all of the above is but one feeling masquerading as others. Let’s put a name to it.

This was the feeling of _despair_.

There were other feelings.

If you look closely, you can find them; they are sometimes hidden to stranger’s eyes; but they all have a connection: love.

In wine bottles you can find _camaraderie; _shaped like stupid conversations and dolphins. Camaraderie sat between them in a sofa, at the back of a dusty bookshop (closed). It breathed when they laughed; it danced when they tried to walk and stumbled onto the other. Camaraderie was in love with silliness.

You could always become friends with hope. It’s delicate and fluttering, unpredictable. It could grow and expand like a fire; it could kill you without compassion. It lives inside those glorious seconds when a hand brushes the other’s. It lifts the chin proudly when an invitation to a date is accepted. It kisses your hand on a picnic.

It murders you at night in empty beds.

The angel had a best friend. It was doubt.

_How he wanted to appease his wishes! Oh, how he yearned and desired! How he struggled to not be murdered by hope but to be the killer instead!_

Doubt lived in his minds and troubles. It was born by reality. It rooted in love. He wanted to let himself go, and live only by love and light, but he couldn’t. Danger stopped him. He couldn’t risk Crowley’s life even if it was in name of happiness.

Doubt has an angelic and demoniac face.

_(Hope has a human one)._

And a human was what saved the angel and the demon. Some feelings died then; in their final breaths they hoped they wouldn’t revive (but they would never admit it).

Some feelings didn’t die in the Apocalypse.

They survived.

And were consumed by mouths finding each other instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the days I don't publish anything, I've been having periodical headaches that last all day. And obviously those days I can't write.   
But the days that I can write I'll try to write the prompts I couldn't write plus the prompt of the day.


	14. The temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14: Fairy tale

‘Sometimes, angel, you look just like one of Hans Zatzka’s fairies.’

Aziraphale blushed furiously.

‘Oh dear, sometimes you say the nicest things.’ The angel looked at Crowley. He was laying on the sofa, looking at Aziraphale with a devilish grin while the angel read on his armchair.

Aziraphale closed his book, and took off his glasses.

‘Funny of you to say that, I actually met him a couple of times. And, well.’ –The angel cleared his throat. - ‘I was presenting as female at the time. Maybe it’s more that those fairies look like me and not the other way around.’

Crowley jumped and sat with his spine straight.

His smile was even bigger than before, if that could be possible. _Oh dear Lord, _thought Aziraphale.

‘Please tell me it’s also you on the _The_ _temptation _one. It’s my favourite one, always thought of taking a photo of us recreating it.’ His eyebrows undulated and Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Gosh, you’re just like a kid. FIne, we’ll do that. But we’ll have to represent _The Kiss _by Klimt too. And I want to be the one kissing you. It will look _so _nice hanging on one of my bookshop’s walls.’

It was Crowley’s turn to blush. His devilish ideas always ended up hitting him in the face. He could only but accept the fact that he was going to be embarrassed every time he entered the bookshop and saw that future atrocity.

The angel was such a bastard.

Crowley sighed. ‘Ngk, okay. I won’t take the idea out of your mind anyways.’

The angel immediately miracled a space on one of the walls with a thought. A bastard indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'll confess: this has the word fairy, yes, but it's not a fairy tale. I saw the paintings mentioned in here the other day and that's all I could think about when I saw the prompt.  
If there's any artist reading this, PLEASE if you want recreate the paintings with them. I'll give you my love forever.  
This is 'The temptation':  
https://gallerix.org/storeroom/1046954391/N/8803647/


	15. My heart is a sinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15: first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You set me on fire.  
Sappho, 11.

So many years in fear.

So many years in doubt.

_Should he make the step? Should he change things? Should he say anything?_

That night in a nameless church he had realised his feelings were reciprocated. And that had made things worse.

But he loved him so much he couldn’t let himself love him properly.

That would have been like killing him

So he dreamt and read about love. He looked at him longingly when the demon couldn’t see. It was so hard; he was a being made of love after all. To try and deny what he felt like he was constantly burning.

He felt restless. What if Heaven, or worse; what if Hell found out what was going on? The fact that he wasn’t confessing his feelings would amount to nothing; they would kill Crowley just for saving Aziraphale throughout history and not killing him when he had the chance.

They could found out in any moment. How could he sleep with that thought? What if one day he fell asleep and couldn’t feel the demon in distress? What if he slept so profoundly he wouldn’t listen to the phone ringing?

So he never slept.

He would sometimes go to pubs at night. There were so many lost souls there; restless, just like him. They also had stories to torture themselves with; shorter ones (they didn’t have thousands of years old) but as intense as his. He would listen to any who wanted to share them; he drowned in alcohol with them. He miracled and pushed those souls into the right direction.

That way, when he would finally stumble to his bookshop, he at least knew someone would have a happier life thanks to him. He thought that maybe he shouldn’t have met Crowley. That way, the demon would have been happier.

Thinking that made him feel guilty.

Sometimes, but not always, he let himself go with strangers. He let himself close his eyes and imagine it was Crowley there between his hands, his lips on his own. _Let me fall a little bit in love with strangers. I need to love a little bit, just for a second, or I’ll drown in it. My heart is a sinner and this is the way I confess._

Then the Antichrist was born, and they had to keep an eye on his upbringing during 11 years.

He had to see Crowley every day.

It was sweet torture. Every day he could look at that dark, skinny figure. The weird way she walked and smiled at the little boy, putting God (or maybe Satan) knows what in his young mind.

He liked to look after the plants in the garden. He knew Crowley kept some in his apartment, and he was glad that he had to take care of plants in his turn; this way he could understand a little bit better the demon’s mind, know more about her private life.

But he had to remind himself every day that this was only temporary; either the world ended and they were separated definitely, or the whole Armaggedon business would fail and they could return to the routine of only seeing each other every other decade. He couldn’t get use to it.

He shouldn’t get so familiar with her singing voice when she cleaned the boy’s clothes, full of mud of the garden; the way she smiled when he saw the angel and then hiding it. The way she has a little more soft than usual (children always did that to the demon).

At least Aziraphale could be a little more relaxed; Heaven and Hell knew they were there taking care of the Antichrist boy, they didn’t need to hide their interaction that much. Well, only when they compared notes on the boy’s behaviour in museums and concerts (they weren’t dates. Never dates).

He will never admit it to anyone; but he loved the way his hand brushed the demon’s in a concert. He loved places where there were lots of people; it was an excuse to get closer to him.

_Just like a painting, just like a piece of art; I love you and admire you, but this fingers of mine can only but ache at the sight of you. You are not mine to be touched; something more powerful owns you; but my soul is not enough to pay for yours._

_And just like painting you are; I can only but take one of those copies home with me. It’s the only way I can love you; touching a copy of you, loving anything but you._

But he never felt truly safe. Sometimes he felt watched, like he had eyes glued in the back of his head, watching everything he did, every time his heart jumped at the sight of his love.

He still didn’t sleep.

So many things happened when the eleven years ended.

They had won.

They had succeeded in deceiving Hell and Heaven; and with that a realisation came; Crowley was not going to get killed because of their interaction (he had made sure of it).

After the Ritz that night, they had crashed in his bookshop and had spent hours drinking, just like the night Crowley had delivered the Antichrist (not giving birth to it) and they had talked about dolphins or something (that conversation was a bit fuzzy in Aziraphale’s mind).

And Crowley had fallen asleep on his couch.

Aziraphale sat on the floor besides him, his arm and head resting on the sofa, near the demon. The angel was struck at how peaceful Crowley looked, a little smile on his face.

‘Aziraphale...’

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, bewildered. He was still sleeping; he had just murmured his name in dreams. He had whispered it like a prayer.

Emotion drowned him. How could be allowed to feel this happy, this safe and soft? Did he have any right to it, to claim this forever, to grow familiar with it?

Could he really live like this now? With light in his veins, silence at the back of his mind? Could he just enjoy the simple things in life, without expecting anything to tarnish it?

He drank this moment like someone who had been lost in the desert for too long. He felt alive, truly alive, just there; in how the low lights of the bookshop danced in the demon’s eyelashes, how his mouth was slightly open and his limbs were tossed everywhere; _how he had whispered his name._

And, for the first time, the angel fell asleep; knowing he would wake up with the love of his life at his side.


	16. There are stars in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 16: Soulmates

Everything is star dust.

_Even my love for you. _

Everything is light-made.

_Even my dark soul that aches for you._

\---

‘Hi, angel! What are you reading today?’

Crowley enters the bookshop, smile in his face and bottle in his hand. Aziraphale is sitting on his armchair with an open book, but his eyes are gazing off in the distance. He startles when his lover enters, coming out of his reverie.

‘I wasn’t reading, really. I was just thinking.’

Crowley snorts. ‘That book must be really boring for you not to read it.’ He sits down on the sofa near the angel, miracling the bottle open and some glasses. He really feels like getting drunk today.

‘As I said, I was thinking. Some time ago I read something about soul mates. What do you think about the topic?’ The angel says, finally closing the book and leaving it on the table.

Crowley stops pouring the contents of the bottle in the glass in his hand, properly thinking his answer. His mind comes out with nothing.

‘What do you really mean by it? Isn’t it some other nonsense humans like to write stories about?’

‘Well, yes, but I rather like the idea of it. It’s... romantic.’ Aziraphale smiles shyly. ‘And maybe it could be us. I mean, you’re always there when I’m in danger, and we’ve been running into each other for millennia.’

Crowley leaves the bottle on the table and gives the half empty glass to Aziraphale; neither of them have realised that he didn’t finish pouring it. Crowley’s face is slightly pink.

‘I thought you were more into the ineffable thing’.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop a little bit, and he pouts in that manner of his in the moments when he wants to manipulate Crowley. ‘So you don’t believe in soulmates then?’

Crowley takes the angel’s hand that’s free from the glass, and he looks into his blue eyes through his sunglasses.

‘How can I not believe in soulmates, angel? It was me that created most of the stars, and our bodies are made of stardust, so there’s definitely a connection there.’ He clears his throat awkwardly. Crowley was a romantic at heart, but he wasn’t really good with words.

‘What I mean is, our bodies are probably made of the same star. But, wait, I think our true- forms also are connected or something, I guess.’

Aziraphale caresses Crowley’s hand with his thumb. He smiles satisfactorily. He knows Crowley is a romantic, but he needs a little push from time to time.

‘I think so too.’ He kisses Crowley’s hand, and the demon’s face turns even pinker. ‘So what kind of whisky did you bring today?’

And an angel and a demon got drunk for hours, forgetting to miracle the alcohol out of their veins (they had one of their worst hangovers ever the next morning).


	17. Baby, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17: accidental baby acquisition
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale get drunk. Like, REALLY drunk. And Crowley remembers something. He has fucked up.

It had been a long time since they were this drunk. They have been drinking for hours now; they couldn’t even remember when they started. Crowley thought they began in the morning, when he entered the bookshop with a new wine acquisition that now he couldn’t remember the name of. It could already be night-time for all that he knew.

He was face down on the couch. He couldn’t see the angel in this position, but he was pretty sure he was sitting on the flour, his back resting on the sofa were Crowley was lying down. Crowley moved his head a bit to look at him; Aziraphale was looking at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

‘ ‘ngel, you still alive?’

Aziraphale straightened his neck and looked at him.

‘Think so. And you?’

Crowley growled. ‘I’m so fucking drunk. Can’t even remember what year it is.’

‘Do you want to sober up?’

Crowley looked at all the empty bottles surrounding them. Something was bothering him. He had forgotten something, something really important, but for the love of Earth he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

‘I don’t really want to. I have been worse, I can still continue drinking.’ Crowley didn’t want to appear weak. He could hold his alcohol as no one. Not even the angel could top him.

The angel look offended for some reason. ‘I can too. I’m not even dizzy.’

‘Oh yeah? Do you want to continue that drinking competition we had in 2000, in New Year’s Eve?’ Crowley sat properly (or as properly his body allowed him to), smirking. The bothering feeling was slipping away from his mind. Oh, well, probably it wasn’t important.

‘Didn’t the competition finish?’ The angel furrowed his eyebrows.

‘Not really, we both passed out and we don’t even know who did first.’

Aziraphale shook his head. ‘No, no. It was you. You definitely passed out first, you can’t lie to me.’

Crowley lifted his hands, trying to do an exasperated gesture, but it looked like he was doing jazz hands. He was too drunk and his body had too many limbs. ‘Oh, come on angel! Let’s restart the competition! Don’t be a party pooper!’

Aziraphale gasped. ‘I’m not a party pooper!’ He immediately miracled a bottle of alcohol (Crowley didn’t recognise the bottle. But it was alcohol and that’s all that mattered).

‘Yeahhh angel! Let’s see how you lose!’

A couple of hours later, they were passed out. Now it was Crowley that had landed on the floor, laying like a starfish, arms and legs stretched out from his body. His mouth was slightly open and he was snoring a bit. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.

Crowley was dreaming. His subconscious had suddenly gotten inspired; he had remembered the thing that had been bothering him earlier. His mind was utterly _Convinced_ of something; so reality adjusted itself to meet his standards, without him knowing.

He suddenly woke up, his eyes overly wide. A sense of urgency invaded him; his mind was screaming at him what it had realised in dreams.

‘FUCK!’

Crowley jumped on his feet immediately, and he began to search for his sunglasses, looking like a mad man.

This made Aziraphale to appear from under the sofa where he had somehow been sleeping.

‘Wha- what? What’s happening?’

‘THE ANTICHRIST. The motherfucking baby! I forgot!’

‘The what now?’

Crowley couldn’t find the damned glasses. He was still drunk, the alcohol hadn’t vanished entirely from his veins, and because of this fact he didn’t even remember he could just miracle it away. From the looks of it, Aziraphale wasn’t really far from this state either.

Crowley looked at the angel, and saw that he had his sunglasses on top of his angelic head. He went to him and snatched them from him, and put them on. He helped the confused angel get up.

‘Ligur and Hastur are waiting for me! They were going to give me the Antichrist and I had to deliver it to some satanic nuns! AND I COMPLETELY FORGOT!’

Aziraphale hadn’t been so confused in his life. Something was wrong, utterly wrong in what Crowley was saying, but he had no idea about what it was. The demon looked really distressed; Aziraphale didn’t know when had been the last time he had seen him like that. He had to trust Crowley in what he was saying; his brain felt too stupid to be of any use.

Crowley was already opening the front door for him. ‘Come on angel, let’ssss go.’

He promptly followed.

When they arrived at the cemetery, the sun was already getting up. It was completely desert.

Crowley stopped the car. Aziraphale was looking around them through the car’s windows.

‘I don’t see anyone. Are you sure this is the meeting place?’

‘Yeah, it’s here. Wait for me in the car; we don’t want them sssseeing you.’

Crowley got off the car (more of like he fell controllably out of the car) and began to search for the demons. They were nowhere to be seen and that was starting to get on Crowley’s nerves. How was he supposed to deliver a baby to some nuns without, well, the baby?

When he walked near a particularly broken tombstone something caught his eye. There, lying on the ground, just as his drunken mind was expecting to see (and reality delivered) was a basket.

‘Aha! Those lazy assssses just left it here. Can’t even do their job properly.’ Crowley made a mental note to bring this matter to Beelzebub. They couldn’t just leave _the Antichrist _on a cemetery all alone, as if waiting for something dreadful to happen. The dreadful thing was scheduled after all; it had to happen in eleven years.

He took the basket and brought it with him to the car. He opened the passenger door and tossed it to Aziraphale. ‘Here you go.’

Aziraphale looked at the basket between his hands. ‘Is it... him? The Antcr- the ent- whatever?’

‘Yup.’ Crowley sat on his seat and closed the door. The car started the engine immediately.

‘Where are we going now?’ asked Aziraphale.

‘To the satanic hospital.’

And so they went. The sun was already completely out; the birds were singing without worries.

On the contrary, a demon and an angel were full of worries.

The hospital was covered in police tape.

Aziraphale and Crowley were standing in front of it, the basket in Crowley’s hand.

‘I can’t believe it. What kind of terrible organisation isss thissss? Nobody has bothered to notify me of thisss. Where are we supposed to go now?’ Crowley repeated for the thousandth time.

Aziraphale looked at the basket, his mind still trying to process what was going on. ‘I have no idea. What do you think happened here?’

‘I don’t know and it’s not my problem.’

‘Yes it is! It’s precisely our problem right now! Where do we have to take the baby now?’

Crowley looked at the basket. Then he looked at Aziraphale. His mind was beginning to mutter an idea.

Aziraphale looked at his face and realised what idea that was.

‘AH, no. Nono. That’s not going to happen.’

‘Come on angel. We’re all this baby hasss.’

‘And why not put him in adop- dope- bring him to other people?’

Crowley shook his head. ‘We can’t just do that. We have to keep an eye on him.’

Crowley was trying to convince himself too. The last thing he wanted to do was to adopt a child. He liked them, sure; but this was the Antichrist and the pressure was too much for his drunken mind. He could already picture a tiny boy making his poor plants explode with his mind.

‘And where do you want to raise him? I can’t have a baby in my bookshop! He’s going to destroy my books!’

‘He’s just a baby, what is he going to do to your books? Stare at them while drooling?’

‘He’s not _just a baby! _He’s the bloody Beast!’

Crowley began to return to the Bentley, and with his free hand he opened the passenger’s seat, a gesture for the angel to enter the car already. ‘Okay, we’ll keep _it_ in my flat. It’s nearly empty anyways.’ He just had to put a barrier in the room where his plants lived (in fear).

The afternoon found them in Crowley’s flat, that was much more crowded than usual. The basket was on the table in the living room, near several bags full of baby stuff. They had gone to multiple shops looking for what a demon and an angel thought was necessary to educate a human baby. There was a sword coming out of one of the bags.

There was a lot of new furniture all around the flat. Aziraphale had taken advantage of the situation to redecorate everything; the flat was much less gloomier. The walls had a brighter colour, and they were already full of shelves with books and toys. In the bedroom, there was a new crib (partially black, partially beige. It was horrible, but it was the only way they had finally shut up about the aesthetics that a crib should have).

The most changed room was the kitchen.

Just a day before it had been nearly empty; Crowley only used it as storage room for his wine and other bottles of alcohol (and Aziraphale’s favourite tea). Now it was full of all the inventions that humanity had come up with during history to feed a baby. And more books.

‘You can’t feed a baby macaroons, angel, are you insane?’

‘Why not? They’re delicious.’

‘Because it’ssss a BABY! We have to give him milk!’

Aziraphale made his I-am-not-convinced face. He had a book of French cuisine in his hands.

‘Milk? How can we only give him milk? I’m sure he will appreciate this delicatessen more.’

Crowley shrugged. ‘I mean, sure. Maybe when he’s like 3 months old. And I think we can give him milk with a bit of scotch. No one ssssaid it only has to be milk.’

Aziraphale nodded, totally convinced. ‘Only milk is boring.’

He suddenly put his hand on his forehead. ‘I’ve been having this bad headache for a bit now. I don’t know why.’

Crowley lowered the book he had in his hands (“_How to train your baby to be a conqueror”) _and looked at him. ‘Why don’t you miracle it away?’

Aziraphale’s eyes lightened up. ‘Oh, yes, good idea. Silly me.’ With just a thought he already felt better. The pain had the decency to go away in shame. Aziraphale sighed, relieved.

Then he realised something. His brain was finally working now; all the alcohol that had been in his body was also gone.

‘Crowley. My dear.’

Crowley was obviously not in his best faculties; he was somehow reading the book upside down.

‘Yes angel?’

‘Don’t you think it is weird the baby has not made a noise in all of our time together?’

Crowley looked at him, surprised. The angel had the tone of voice he made when Crowley had done Something Stupid. But this time Crowley had no idea of what it was. And what Aziraphale was saying was rather interesting.

‘ It’s true now that you say it. Maybe he’s jussst sleeping. Oh! Do you think he’s going to be in a coma or something ‘til his eleventh birthday?’

Aziraphale sighed. Oh boy. Crowley must have done Something Extremely Stupid then.

‘Crowley. Sober up.’

Crowley had completely forgotten that he was drunk. And about his capacity to perform miracles. Okay, it totally made sense that the angel was acting like that. He immediately sobered up, and a fog in his mind that he hadn’t even realised was there cleared up.

He looked at the angel. He was looking at him expectantly, his eyebrows raised.

‘Oh’ was all that Crowley could muster.

‘Yes.’

‘_Oh.’_

‘Let’s never get this drunk again please.’ The angel sighed again.

‘What the fuck happened?’

They went together to the living room, and they sat on the (new) sofa. They needed to talk about it calmly, and the disaster in the kitchen was too distracting.

Crowley was completely confused. He felt like his mind had just played a joke on him.

‘Did we really go to fetch the Antichrist?’

‘Yes. And we even went to the hospital. Again.’

Crowley shook his head.

‘It’s so confusing. Why? The Armageddon already happened. Adam lives as a human in Tadfield.’

The angel looked at his hands, clasped together. He was thinking.

‘Maybe you just forgot about it. We got really drunk after all. Maybe it was just residual anxiety about the whole business.’

Crowley ran his hands over his face. He felt really, really tired and fed up.

‘I have the sensation I dreamt about it when I passed out. That must be the reason I woke up just _knowing _I had forgotten the baby. It’s like I continued the dream.’

Aziraphale nodded. ‘And we were both too drunk to realise all of that had already happened.’

He laughed with all his heart, and Crowley looked at him, a bit offended. ‘Don’t laugh! It was so stupid! And what do I do with all this stuff?’

Aziraphale laughed even harder. He even had tears in his eyes. Looking at him, Crowley couldn’t stand to be moody for too long, so he smiled.

‘And you even miracled a basket because that’s what you expected to find. Such an evil demon you are’ said Aziraphale between gasps.

Crowley laughed at last. He suddenly stopped, and furrowed his eyebrows. He looked at the basket on the table, and then at the angel. ‘Do you think... that I also miracled a baby?’

Aziraphale looked at him horrified. ‘Oh Lord, don’t tell me there’s a baby corpse or something inside that basket.’

Crowley looked really pale. ‘It didn’t felt empty when I was carrying it. Did it feel empty to you?’ Aziraphale shook his head, his jaw tense.

They both looked at the basket at the same time. Crowley stood up slowly, and walked towards it carefully, as if expecting to see the basket transform into a bomb. He opened the basket even more slowly, not really sure he wanted to see what was inside. Aziraphale was just behind him, looking over his shoulder.

It was a plastic baby.

Crowley took it in his hands, not believing his eyes. They look at each other, eyes wide, and they burst out laughing.

They laughed until their stomachs hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale miracles all the baby stuff to the charity. Crowley leaves his flat just like it is now, in hopes that Aziraphale moves in with him. (It works)  
Don't you hate it when you get so drunk you forget that the Apocalypse already happened?


	18. I'll leave you words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18: poetry

_"Je te laisserai des mots_  
_En dessous de ta porte_  
_En dessous de la lune qui chante_  
_Tout pres de la place ou tes pieds passent_  
_Cache dans les trous de temps d'hiver_  
_Et quand tu es seule pendant un instant_  
_Embrasse moi_  
_Quand tu voudras"_

Translation:

_I_ _’ll leave you words_

_Underneath your door_

_Underneath the singing moon_

_Near the place where your feet pass by_

_Hidden in the holes of wintertime_

_And when you’re alone for a moment_

_Kiss me_

_Whenever you want_

_-'Je te laisserai des mots' _by Patrick Watson.

Imagine that you love light.

Light is everywhere, it surrounds you. It drowns you and makes you shiver.

It cuts your tongue.

Imagine that the one you love is made of light. He is full of it, breathing stars and muttering dreams.

And he laughs with the colour of dawn. His eyes-

And you die and the words don’t come out.

_Words._

Words are precisely what enslave Crowley. He can’t flicker his fingers like he did when he created the stars to put the words together to express his feelings.

There are no words on this world to express what you feel about an out- earthly creature.

So he just looks and dies inside. He looks at little wrinkles surrounding impossible eyes. The way he touches a fork while thinking where he’s going to begin eating.

How his mouth twitches when he hears the bell of the bookshop ringing.

His heart rings with it.

_Please kiss me just once. Just once and I’ll never want anything again._

So he kills the sleepless nights with words written by someone else.

Sometimes he doesn’t understand a word of what they say, so he just listens to music.

Sometimes he finds his fingers curled around a book.

Imagine that you’ve been in love for many years.

Imagine that that person is made of love, but they don’t love you.

You can only yearn and suffocate.

Sappho knew so she prayed to Aphrodite.

And Crowley cried the first time he read her poetry.

He isn’t good with words but he’s too familiar with emotions. He can’t kill them; murder them in their sleep with a knife. He can’t sedate them even (it barely even stung) so he just fans the flames and let them consume him.

_“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”_

And Crowley cries. But his tears aren’t made of water; they are still flames, Hell sliding on his skin.

He wants to show it to the angel. He wants to see his reaction. Will he cry? Will he pity Crowley?

Maybe he’s already read it before.

And Crowley dreams about the angel reading it aloud, knowing it by heart, thinking about him and a distance of six thousand years that smell like crepes and holy water. And maybe the angel feels it too; feels the desperation and how hollow an empty bed can be, how sad and how stupid everything is. And how can they be enemies, how can they be separated by worlds, him down and buried and the angel swimming in stars (stars that he created), when he feels like this.

And Crowley dreams about whispering poetry to an angel’s ear.

Imagine just that; your lips caressing the holy skin and words trapped in your mind become free by your tongue. You’ll make your lover cry and he’ll let you taste his tears; let you be burn by them (_holy water, always holy water between us and our hands_).

One day there comes the opportunity. The angel sleeps. His reading glasses are hanging awkwardly on his nose; a book has fallen from his hands unto the floor.

And Crowley approaches him; he bows towards him (like a priest in the altar) and caresses his hair with his fingers. Gently, with a featherly touch, with love.

And his lips go near his ear. And he whispers, he prays, or maybe he just thinks (voice low, voice that should be unheard):

_“Like a sweet-apple_

_turning red_

_high_

_on the tip_

_of the topmost branch._

_Forgotten by pickers._

_Not forgotten—_

_they couldn’t reach it.”_

Imagine that this time it’s all real. You are not delirious, but maybe you are, because angelic hands, soft hands that you dreams about circle your neck and push you impossibly closer; cherished lips whisper in your ear:

_“Come to me now once again and release me_

_from grueling anxiety._

_All that my heart longs for,_

_fulfill. _ _And be yourself my ally in love’s battle.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To completely understand the mood I was in when I wrote this, listen to Patrick Watson while readin 'Crush' by Richard Silken. I'm still crying.  
The " You are in a car with a beautiful boy" bit is an extract that murdered me of "You are Jeff" by Richard Silken. Don't let the name of it fool you; it will come for your knee caps.


	19. Amore e Psiche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 19: Mythology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was quite fun investigating for this prompt! It was a coincidence, really. I thought one day to do something with statues, because Crowley looks like he could be interested in them. I looked at which statues are displayed in the Louvre, and I found out about the one mentioned here, and I thought it fitted the prompt (and the ineffable husbands) perfectly.

Crowley has never liked tragedies. He likes happy endings, because he’s a demon and he has seeing Hell; he knows how bad endings look like.

During his existence he has wondered if he would end up having a happy ending, when the Time comes. He knew he would probably die smitten by an angel in the coming War, after the Apocalypse, but what mattered to him was the life he would have led until that point. At that moment, will he know that at least he had achieved happiness at some point?

Through the course of humanity, he has seen stories change and inspire each other. He loves art; it’s the direct expression of the stories humans have in their hearts. He has met many artists of all types: musicians, painters, writers, sculptors. He didn’t like all of them, but he respected them. He had been a creator himself, after all.

And sometimes he couldn’t help but create as humans did.

This is a story about how Aziraphale finds out about this.

Aziraphale is the obvious winner in the matter of loving stories. He has a passion and a dedication for it, but he tends to only appreciate them in book form.

He likes to see how Crowley appreciates art and all its forms. He loves to see him getting excited when discovering new music, and how relaxed he looks when visiting a museum, like he has found his place in the world. He knows the demon will never admit that he deeply cares about art, so he has to come up with excuses to take Crowley to museums. He always invites him under the pretext of needing company (before the Apocalypse it was to have clandestine meetings, so now he has to come up with new excuses). At least Crowley loves music openly, and even though Aziraphale doesn’t really know about modern music (_bebop) _he always accompanies him to concerts.

That day they were going to the Louvre. They’ve visited this museum hundreds of times, but they always find something new and interesting every time they come, as if the museum was as infinite as their existences and its corridors extended themselves at whim.

They were in front of the statue of _Psyche revived by Cupid’s kiss. _Aziraphale loved this statue; every time they came to the museum, he liked to walk around it, admiring every detail as if it was the first time seeing it. He knew it as well as his bookshop at that point. But he could never admire it for long; Crowley always began to fidget around when they spent more than a minute in the same place. Aziraphale had the suspicion he didn’t like this particular statue; he thought that he didn’t even seen the demon look at it for more than a second.

That day was no different. Crowley was passing his weight from one leg to another; in one minute his hands were in his pockets, in the other they were playing with his hair.

‘Crowley, dear, don’t worry, I’ll be finished soon; just give me a minute.’

Crowley nodded, looking at the floor. Aziraphale stopped walking and stood by his side, still looking at the statute. He doubted before talking. ‘Why don’t you like this statue?’

Crowley looked at him, surprised. ‘I’ve never said I didn’t like it.’

Aziraphale turned around to face him. ‘So why do you never look at it properly?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘I’ve seen it too much already; I don’t really need to see it more.’

At this, the angel scuffed. ‘Do you care to explain to me how have you seen it multiple times, when every time we come you don’t even look at it?’

Crowley’s eyes returned to face his shoes. He mumbled something. Aziraphale inclined his head to listen to him better. ‘Excuse me?’

Crowley looked at him this time. ‘It’s because I made it.’

‘You did _what?’_

‘I made the statue!’

Crowley looked extremely embarrassed and Aziraphale didn’t know how to react. Crowley being interested in sculpture wasn’t a surprise for him; he had two sculptures in his flat that he knew of. But between _owning _statues and _making _them there were worlds of difference.

‘How... when? But that’s not possible. The sculptor was Antonio Canovia, wasn’t it?’

Crowley looks at him raising his eyebrows.

‘Oh.’

‘Yup. I do prefer how Anthony sounds, though.’

Aziraphale looked around. That wasn’t the place to be having this conversation. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere else to talk about this? I really want to know everything.’

The initial shock already gone, Aziraphale felt kind of excited. He loved stories after all, and he had never imagined Crowley sculpting, so he was dying to know how that came to be. Crowley, with black shirt badly unbuttoned, covered in dust, pumice stone in hand; that would have been quite the sight.

Aziraphale began walking away from the statue, looking for a good place to sit down, and Crowley followed him. He hadn’t planned on making that confession; in fact, his intentions were of taking that secret to the (metaphorical) grave.

He closed his eyes for a moment, travelling to some place in Rome in 1787.

He had loved and hated being Antonio at the same time. It had been wonderful to be an artist. His mind would disconnect, and just create. He had never felt as part of this world as when his mind fell silent and let his body work. It had been just like how he felt when he created the stars. Nothing could quite be the same as it, of course; but it had been similar, _so _similar.

He painfully remembered making _Amore e Psiche. _It had been a commission by some colonel. He remembered how cruel the whole situation had been. _Psyche, in the arms of her lover, after escaping the Underworld._

Her story was all that he ever wanted.

_To crawl outside of the Underworld; fire and darkness behind him at least. To crawl and meet the one he loved, but couldn’t have._

And just like Psyche, he had opened the box; he had also wanted to be better for his angel, but the mistake he had made was going too fast for him. Just like Psyche, he had been the one to push him away, instead of respecting his pace. The painful bit was that that had happened many years after making the statue, as if his destiny was sealed the moment he made it.

All the time he had spent making that statue, that was the only thing that stuck with him. His mind hadn’t been as peaceful as with other statues; he couldn’t tear the image of Aziraphale, wings unfurled, perching over him to show him his love. He had craved for one of those happy endings he had always loved. He didn’t want to wonder if he deserved it.

Looking at it now, that time had been kind of pathetic. So obviously in love, so obviously pining for someone he couldn’t even be friends with. He had lived with his emotions exposed like a second skin. He had made his statues while listening to someone read him a variety of books, just to feel a bit of the angel’s presence with him.

Even though it had been embarrassing, it had been kind of a relief too. He had let his not-so-demonic emotions take the wheel for a bit, and he had reconnected with his passion for creating. It had been like a spiritual getaway for him.

They arrived to a café, where a table was miraculously waiting for them. Aziraphale ordered a croissant and a hot chocolate. Crowley ordered the second croissant he knew Aziraphale was going to want but didn’t wished to admit just yet (it wasn’t a nice gesture; it was just to save some time).

‘So?’ asked Aziraphale, once the waiter went away with their order.

‘So. What do you want me to say?’

Aziraphale put his hands on the table, and interlocked his fingers. It was the gesture he made when he was prepared to hear a story.

‘Why sculpture?’

Crowley shrugged, looking at Aziraphale’s hands. ‘I don’t know. It just sort of happened. I wanted to do something... artsy, and sculpture felt right.’

‘And you integrated human society for that? I’ve read about Antonio Canova; he appeared to be a perfectly normal human; he was born, he died... Was it necessary to invent a complete identity for it?’

Crowley made the smile he thought made him appear the most evil. ‘I didn’t invent an identity; I stole it.’

He looked at the angel, expecting to see some kind of reaction. Aziraphale wasn’t at all surprised.

‘That sounds more reasonable than inventing it from scratch.’

Crowley smiled. A bit of a bastard indeed.

‘He was already a sculptor when I met him. I just posed as him for a while. I had to manipulate lots of memories; Hell was pleased with me.’

The waiter arrived with their food, and Aziraphale’s face lightened up when he smelled the hot chocolate. He thanked the waiter and immediately began eating, leaving no crumbs around his mouth.

‘And why did you choose Antonio and not some other?’ he said after he swallowed.

‘Well, I liked his name. I even copied it afterwards. And also his style went well with what I had in mind, so it was logical to choose him.’

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He knew which one of those two reasons had been the most important in the demon’s decision making.

Crowley had his arms crossed on his chest. He didn’t look annoyed, but he wasn’t happy either; sharing this with him probably hadn’t been his intention. He respected that the demon liked his privacy, and he never pushed him to explain all that he had been doing during the years when they hadn’t been together. If one day Crowley wished to talk about it, Aziraphale would be more than happy to listen to him.

But that aroused a question.

‘Why are you telling me this now?’

Crowley carefully uncrossed his arms and put his hands on the table, taking a spoon between his fingers, and began to spin it around. Aziraphale drank his chocolate, patiently waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t know. I just... saw you, looking at that statue, and your eyes were shining. All the other times we came here and you saw it, you looked exactly the same, but I was afraid that if I told you a demon had made it, it would change your perception of it. And I wanted you to still enjoy it.’ Crowley sighed. ‘But today I thought that it could be alright to tell you.’

Crowley thought about Psyche escaping the Underworld. He thought of himself, meeting the angel for the first time. He remembered both of them dining at the Ritz, finally free.

He had gotten what he wanted. He was free from Hell.

He dropped the spoon and took the angel’s hands in his.

‘You are with me now. You revived me with a kiss too.’

Aziraphale smiled and his eyes shone, and Crowley’s heart sang.

He had gotten his happy ending, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is yesterday's prompt that I didn't do because I wasn't feeling that well. Today I could finish it, but I'm not really inspired and I don't quite like how it turned out. Tomorrow I'll be doing today's prompt as well as whatever prompt it is tomorrow's.  
f you want to know how the statue looks like:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psyche_Revived_by_Cupid%27s_Kiss


	20. God's entertainment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 20: weird  
God kind of roasts Crowley and Aziraphale. But She loves them

Weird was one of God’s favourite concepts. She had felt really inspired when inventing it: something out of the ordinary, surprising, original. She loved to create weird things, and see how others reacted to it.

She liked to be surprised. She loved the ordinary, of course (She loved all things) but sometimes, all that She needed was to see something or someone be completely weird to stimulate Her mind. Existing as a Know-It-All being could be pretty boring.

That’s the reason that She really liked certain demon and certain angel living on Earth.

They weren’t the best at their jobs. They constantly did things that weren’t what was expected of them, and most importantly, they surprised God. The only thing that She had planned for them in Her Ineffable Plan was for them to create some chaos. She knew that would be enough; they were so incapable of doing their supposed jobs properly that it was impossible for them to fail doing what was really in store for them.

Her favourite thing about them, apart from how original they were, was obviously their love. Love was Her favourite emotion after all. And how extraordinary to see these strange creatures, apparently so different from each other, being in love. She had been surprised when She first found out about it, but then She realised it actually felt natural and obvious. She had really hoped that they would like each other, when She created them; and was pleased when She saw the extension of those emotions.

But it was frustrating to see them pining through history.

She was patient, of course She was. But it had felt frustrating nonetheless. She knew that if after the Nopecalypse they didn’t get together, She had to do something about it. She had a clear non-intervention policy, but there were limits, and a not obvious little push would hurt no one (She knew).

Thank goodness they had gotten together by themselves. She had been so happy, She had produced several rainbows across the world.

God knew that, even if now She couldn’t see them dancing around each other frustratingly, Her entertainment wouldn’t end.

That’s the thing with weird creatures; they’d never cease to amaze Her.


	21. Sometimes you find kindness in demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 21: Hope
> 
> World War II makes Aziraphale lose hope about the good things about humanity.

Aziraphale was an angel, and always had been. That meant that he was a creature of love, of kindness and hope.

He was not a typical angel, and he knew that. He sometimes had a bad time coming to terms with it, especially when it involved his feelings towards a demon; he couldn’t admit he saw him as a friend and someone he could trust.

Lately he hadn’t felt really angelic at all. He had lost hope.

He felt so guilty about it. He repeated to himself, over and over, that he was an angel and he shouldn’t feel that way. He was betraying his own kind, his job and purpose. He had been put on Earth to bring all the good he could; he was a Guardian, a protector. He should be able to feel hope and to bring it to those in need. And he was failing spectacularly.

Humanity was at war with itself.

It shouldn’t serve as an explanation, really. He was a soldier. He had seen war; he had seen friends Falling in disgrace. He had seen the horrors of it, experienced them in his own flesh.

But he was tired; exhausted of seeing children die. Innocent people suffering for things they weren’t at fault with. He had seen humanity develop and come up with marvellous things; each decade that passed, they surprised him without fault. It didn’t matter how much time went through, he always found his love for humanity renovated. He loved the world and he loved to experience life posing as one of them.

At the same time, he realised that humanity didn’t always share his love for the world; with their lovely inventions always came new instruments of destruction and hate. Just because some humans were blinded with their selfishness, thousands had to perish.

His hope of things getting better died the moment another countless child exhaled their last breath in his arms.

He couldn’t save all of them. His miracles weren’t that powerful.

Lately he could only see darkness surrounding him. He had given up on waiting for things to get better. He knew that the war would eventually end; but only to make way for another one. Humanity was bound to destroy itself. Love, happiness, empathy, all of that was only temporary; sadness and destruction would always return.

Was he really necessary on Earth? His best efforts had all amounted to nothing. All humans would eventually suffer and die; his presence didn’t matter.

He had no tears left to cry.

He thought about Crowley constantly. He hadn’t seen him since their argument about holy water, and he didn’t know where he currently was. He really hoped he was safe and far away from the places in war. He knew the demon wouldn’t stand to see all those children dying. He also knew for certain that Crowley had nothing to do with the war; he remembered how drunk he had been when Hell had thought that the Spanish Inquisition had been his invention.

One day, precisely because Aziraphale had been thinking about Crowley, he came up with an idea. It was an action that wouldn’t bring much help to the world, as if screaming to a storm, but it was something. And at least he wouldn’t feel as useless.

The idea revolved around Crowley’s style of creating mischief. He knew the demon preferred to do things in a bigger scale, in opposition to tempt people individually. He wanted to adopt this way of doing things. If he could thwart some Nazi’s plans, instead of just running around healing people, he could prevent them from hurting directly! He only needed to contact some spies and lure the Nazis into a trap, somehow.

It had been difficult to plan. He thanked his angelic nature; without the power to do miracles it would have been so much more complicated. He didn’t want to take big risks and get discorporated; by the time he would be back, many people would have died. His plan needed to be effective as soon as possible.

But he accomplished it; he lured them into a church (he liked to be dramatic sometimes. It didn’t hurt anybody, as Nazis didn’t count as people) with his most powerful weapons: his books. He was so proud of himself.

Until he realised he had been the one falling into a trap. He felt so foolish for thinking he could do this. Of course he couldn’t; desperation always found ways to destroy his plans. He had been too naïve and he had trusted the wrong people.

That was until the demon came to rescue him. He wouldn’t admit it, but when he had seen him coming in to save him (into a church no less!) he had felt a rush of affection go through his veins.

Thanks to him, his plans didn’t turn out as useless as they could’ve been; the Nazis had died. It was something, but they were just three Nazis and there were hundreds of them. He felt a sadness that was now too familiar to him. The war was still ongoing, and his books had been destroyed. He felt so stupid for caring about them; they didn’t matter, not when the world was surrounded by flame and death.

And then Crowley had handed him a bag. His bag. The bag with books. He had saved them for him.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley walking away from the rumble, his heart pounding.

In this world, full of hate and spite, a demon, of all creatures, had saved his books just because he didn’t want Aziraphale to be sad. Crowley, a _demon, _had acted with pure kindness and selfless desire. And the instant their fingers had brushed when Crowley handed him the bag, he had felt love.

And Aziraphale felt hope again. If a demon could be kind, and could love, maybe the world wasn’t as bad. Maybe it was worth living in it. Maybe love was worth it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " his most powerful weapons: his books" Crowley doesn't agree with that...


	22. All of your love is sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 22: summer

The sun was gently cascading through the leaves, caressing his face. There was a bit of breeze, which carried the warm smell of the forest. Everything was quiet.

Crowley had his eyes closed. He was lying on the ground. His mind was as calm as his surroundings.

He had his head on Aziraphale’s lap. He was on his side, his face looking away from the angel. Aziraphale was lovingly touching his hair. Sometimes he made tiny braids with steady fingers, caressing Crowley’s face and neck in the process. Crowley was happy he had let it grow again.

It was a pleasant summer afternoon. The only ones that broke the silence from time to time were the birds singing. At some point, Aziraphale began to hum, making Crowley smile.

They had gone out for a picnic; they had already gone to the Ritz, and the picnic was what was left of their promise in the 1960s. Crowley had brought the alcohol and an apple pie; Aziraphale had brought chocolates and biscuits. They had eaten talking quietly; the forest where they were had a similar feeling to a temple, making them feel like the gentle songs of the birds and an angel humming were the only sounds that were permitted.

They soaked on the sunlight peacefully, enjoying each other’s presence. That day they had convinced each other to wear different clothes than usual; they didn’t need to wear the colours that pertained to their old sides anymore. Their style was the same as usual, but they had started to incorporate new colours, little by little. It had been a good decision; they now felt closer to humanity than ever. It helped them relax and get used to the new situation.

Crowley had been incorporating pops of colour to his outfits, instead of going all black as usual. That day he was wearing a red shirt with plant patterns, and he even wore shorts. Aziraphale was the one that had changed the least as he wasn’t as habituated to change styles, specially for the last few decades. He was wearing his clothes in a more relaxed way; his dark blue bowtie was undone. He even wore a hat.

Crowley opened his eyes to look at the angel. He realised Aziraphale was the one who had his eyes closed at the moment; he was really enjoying himself. Crowley felt really satisfied with that; it had been his objective, after all. He had really wished to see the angel relax a bit after all the events of the Apocancelled. It had been exhausting for him too, but at least he had been sure that he wanted to ditch Hell for some years now; Aziraphale had been having doubts until the very end. Crowley knew that once the angel had decided to be on their own side he wouldn’t turn back to Heaven, but he still worried that Aziraphale thought too much about everything.

But seeing him bathing in sunlight, his hair catching gold highlights like dandelions, he knew he could stop worrying. His angel was strong, and Crowley was reminded of that. He could just relax, knowing that they both had taken the right decision.

They were happy, and the world felt gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to write something short but peaceful today, and the prompt was just perfect.   
Title from the song 'Sunlight' by Hozier.  
Their clothes are inspired from this beautiful drawing: https://luftballons99.tumblr.com/post/186750264366/summer-looks


	23. Sharing drinks with Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 24: Death  
Death wants to get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the neutral pronouns they/them for Death

Death had the worst paid job ever. They had to work 24/7 until the end of times, and be too many places at once. There were only two good things about this job:

  1. They didn’t have any boss.
  2. They couldn’t be fired.

But it was a lonely job.

They didn’t pertain to any side: nor Heaven or Hell. Not even Earth, even if they passed all their time there. They couldn’t make new friends; how could they, if they always knew when the other was going to die. The conversations were awkward.

Death did have three friends though. The problem is that they couldn’t reunite whenever they wanted; it had to be specified in the Great Plan. From time to time, some of them met to cause a world disaster, but never the four of them at the same time. That was reserved for the End of Things.

This had failed.

Death had accepted this with grace. They hadn’t liked it: they had been waiting for the reunion and the destruction of things. They really needed to have some fun, and they had always thought that they wouldn’t have more fun than with the Apocalypse. After that Day, Death would have unlimited vacation; everything would be dead and their job would be done.

Death was bored. Well, it was their permanent state. They had already seen everything that could be seen; nothing was surprising or funny anymore.

Until the Final Day. That Day, several strange things had happened. All the business with the Antichrist not wanting to do what he had been born to do; Heaven and Hell not doing the war they so much wanted to win, and Death’s companions being neutralized by some kids to top it all. But something had caught their eye specially.

Two immortal beings denying the sides that were theirs by nature. They were a strange but fun pair. Death had been immediately interested in them; they were immortal, so Death had nothing to do with them job-wise, and they pertained to their own, special side, just like Death.

Maybe they could be friends?

That’s why they had appeared before the couple. Death had sensed they were in trouble (they had put some of their Special Senses focused on them) so they had decided to intervene. Shouting INEFFABLE had seemed appropriate; Death knew the angel was going to think it was bad luck to see them.

Death had been really happy to see that things had worked out for the couple. It had been fun even; Death had taken a peak at the faces the demons and the angels during the executions (Death had eyes everywhere) and the fiasco of the Armageddon’t had been compensated just with that.

When some months had passed, Death decided to pay them a visit. Not for business of course.

The demon, when he saw them, nearly passed out. Death had entered the shop at night, with a bottle of wine in their hand. Death was ready to party.

‘HELLO. SORRY FOR THE INTRUSION.’

The couple had been drinking already; there was a corner of the bookshop where they had put some sofas, and there were several empty bottles already. The demon was lying on top of one of the sofas, and the vision of Death entering the shop had been too much; Crowley transformed into a snake. The angel came back from the back room in a hurry. When he saw who this new guest was, he opened his mouth in surprise, but he composed himself quickly. Aziraphale was visibly drunk and he was in a state where he didn’t really care about much anymore.

‘Oh, hullo. Please come and sit with us.’

‘THANK YOU. I’M SORRY FOR COMING UNEXPECTEDLY. I’M NOT USE TO ANNOUNCE MYSELF.’

‘It’s quite alright my dear’.

Aziraphale sat down near the giant snake. Crowley took advantage of it and climbed the angel’s arms until he was completely surrounding him. He rested his head on top of the angel’s to look at Death with wary eyes. He looked too drunk to transform back into human shape, and he felt that in this way he could better protect the angel. Death respected that.

Death had sat on the sofa in front of them. They still had the bottle in their hands, so he put it on the sofa at his side.

‘So, what is the purpose of this visit?’ asked the angel.

‘I’VE BEEN QUITE BORED THIS LAST SIX THOUSAND YEARS OR SO. I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO HAVE SOME FRIENDS.’

‘What about the other horse-bike- whatever?’ Aziraphale was slowly petting Crowley.

‘I CAN’T MEET THEM WHENEVER I WANT. ONLY WHEN THE GREAT PLAN WANTS IT’.

‘That sounds inconvenient.’

Silence fell. There were only the sounds of Crowley hissing satisfactorily.

‘What do you have there, dear?’

Death had forgotten about the wine. They show him, proudly. It had been the first time they had bought alcohol. The cashier’s face when she had seen Death was something to remember.

Death handed the bottle to Aziraphale, who looked at it with interest. He miracled them some glasses and began to serve the wine. Crowley sobered a bit to be able to transform back into a human shape only to continue drinking. He was more relaxed now that it was obvious Death wasn’t a menace, just a weird presence.

Death took his glass when Aziraphale handed it to them and took a sip. He could taste all the grapes that had died to make the wine. It was good.

‘You’re not a spy or something, aren’t you?’ Crowley asked, just in case.

‘NAH. I’M IN NO ONE’S SIDE. JUST IN MY OWN.’

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other with an understanding look. They knew what that was like, but at least they had each other. They finally realised that Death was probably feeling lonely.

They drank for a while; then things took an unexpected turn. They began to play drinking games.

Until that moment, Crowley and Aziraphale had only played those games with each other. Around other humans they could never be totally honest with their experiences. But with Death, things were different. They had seen the same things, or even more, than the couple. With the game Truth or Drink they finally knew about how some famous people had died, or if they had really died. The most interesting answer had been with Michael Jackson. When Crowley heard Death’s answer, he laughed so much he began to hiccup and couldn’t stop for the next couple of hours.

‘And one *hic* thing. I want to know, or we want to know, who was *hic* winning’ said Crowley.

‘WINNING WHAT’ Death was lying on the sofa in a very Crowley way. Their robes, floating a bit around the edges, were splayed out everywhere.

‘The souls thingy. Who had more *hic*, more *hic* FUCK ME! MORE SOULS?’

Aziraphale looked interested too. ‘Yes, that! We tried to have a scoreboard but then we miscalculated at some point, and we had a bet.’

Death chuckled. ‘IT WAS ACTUALLY PRETTY EQUAL’.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other. ‘Who the fuck wins the bet then?’

Aziraphale sighed. ‘I think we both lost.’ Death laughed again.

When the wine ended, someone miracled vodka. And then whisky.

Death thought they were going to die (in a metaphorical way) of laughter watching Crowley dancing and singing on top of his lungs ‘I want to be your girlfriend’ by Ezra Furman to Aziraphale. The best part of it all was Crowley immediately passing out on the floor the moment he finished the song.

Death thought it had been a very good night. They looked at Aziraphale, who was very close to enter the same state as Crowley.

‘I THINK I’LL BE GOING NOW. THANKS FOR EVERYTHING’

Aziraphale said ‘Mm.’

‘CAN WE REPEAT THIS SOME OTHER DAY?’

Aziraphale nodded and fell asleep.

And Death vanished into the night just as they had come. Well, they stumbled a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm begging you with my knees on the floor to listen to Ezra's song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8e1h31hVGSw&list=RDc-B5yr2zyY0&index=25  
It's the PERFECT song for drunk Crowley and I'll fight anyone that says otherwise.


	24. Adam's party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 24: superheroes/supervillains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley uses she/her pronouns in this chapter, and she is more female presenting.

Aziraphale made his most dramatic sigh. ‘Why do we have to do this?’

The angel was sitting on their shared bed, putting on his shoes. Crowley was in front of the mirror, finishing her makeup. She was really happy in how it had turned out.

‘Adam wanted us all to do this, and you agreed to it. Nothing we can do.’ She tried to appear as against it as Aziraphale was, but she was already beginning to enjoy it.

It was Adam’s 12th birthday, and he had invited them. The bad thing (in Aziraphale’s opinion) was that it was a costume party with a specific theme: heroes and villains. Adam had called them to invite them, and Aziraphale had really insisted that they didn’t need any costumes, they were already supernatural; but Adam had been adamant about it. He had used his Antichrist Tone, so they decided it was best not to test how human Adam truly was.

Aziraphale had ranted for half an hour after that conversation, blaming Crowley for inventing costume themed parties. Luckily, Crowley knew something or two about heroes and villains, so the idea of who they were going to dress up as came naturally for him.

They were going as Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn.

Crowley had always liked Poison Ivy’s outfit. And it was perfect for her; Crowley also liked plants (in her own way), and she loved how Poison Ivy used them as weapons. And she also had beautiful red hair.

Aziraphale, when he had looked at photos of Harley Quinn on Google, objectified as to wear so few clothes; he had standards, after all. Crowley convinced him when she told him he could do whatever version of the character he wanted to do, and change some details; Adam would certainly not care about it. The important thing was to go in costume.

Aziraphale then had decided to go as a more male-presenting version of Harley Quinn, as it was a much closer version of what he was comfortable wearing. He agreed that the shorts the character wore where fantastic, but he wasn’t enthusiastic in trying them on. He had also seen the more buffoon outfit the character also had, but it was worse than the other options: ‘I’m going to feel like a clown already, I’m certainly not going to dress as one, and that’s final.’

He was wearing pants of two colours: the left side was blue and the right side was red. He wore a shirt that had ‘_Daddy’s Lil Monster’ _(that Crowley was 100% going to steal it from him and use it as pyjamas unironically), and on top of it a jacket with the same colours as his pants. He felt kind of ridiculous, but he had never tried a costume before, and deep, deep down it was kind of fun. He had even miraculously dyed his hair tips blue and red. He finished putting on his shoes and looked at Crowley.

Crowley looked delightful. She had chosen to present as female that day, because Poison Ivy did so and Crowley like to do things with full commitment. And she loved how the costume looked on her with a female presenting body, but maybe another time she would try it in male presenting. She was wearing a really tight green one-piece outfit, adorned with leaves. She wore green tights and green high heeled boots. Her red hair was long, and its colour contrasted nicely with all the green. She finished putting on green eyeshadow.

She turned around to see Aziraphale watching her. The angel, weirdly, was really rocking his outfit. Crowley approached him, black pencil in her hand. ‘You’re needing some details.’

Crowley sat near him, and gently grabbed the angel’s chin to steady him. She drew a little black heart under his right eye. Aziraphale remembered how Crowley had been the one to draw his magician moustache in Warlock’s birthday. ‘There, all done.’ Crowley got up, and extended her hand. Aziraphale took it and got up.

They went to Adam’s house in the Bentley. Crowley was surprisingly (on second thought, maybe not) good at driving with high heels.

The party had already begun when they arrived. They saw Adam discussing with his dad by the front of the door of their house; Adam was dressed as Spiderman, but his dad didn’t look like he was in costume. Crowley and Aziraphale approached them. Adam saw them and waved at them, happily; his dad took advantage of his distraction and ran away.

‘Hey guys! You look SO awesome, thanks for coming!’

Crowley tossed Adam’s hair a bit. She had taken a liking to the kid, in the end.

‘What was going on with your dad?’ Aziraphale asked.

Adam sighed. ‘I really, really wanted everyone to be in costume, even the adults. But he is the only adult that isn’t dressed up. And he’s saying that he’s going as Clark Kent.’

Crowley laughed. ‘That’s a good one.’

Adam looked at them, a curious glint in his eyes. ‘You came to a birthday party without presents?’

Crowley smiled, and snapped her fingers. A plastic bag with something inside appeared in her hand, and she gave it to Adam. ‘Happy birthday, my Lord.’

Adam looked inside, excited. ‘A Nintendo Switch! Awesome! Please come to the garden!’ and he ran away.

Aziraphale smiled tenderly, and offered his arm to Crowley, who immediately linked her arm to his. ‘Let’s go, my dear. I really want a piece of whatever cake they’re surely having’. Crowley returned the smile, and kissed his cheek.

The garden had been decorated nicely, with some Marvel and DC details. Crowley nearly choked when she saw Newton dressed as Catwoman. He was talking with someone she didn’t recognise. Anathema, dressed as Dr. Strange, approached them in a hurry, a badly repressed smile on her face.

‘Newt said that there’s nothing gendered about a cat costume. His costume is SO tight that I don’t know how he’s breathing. At least the lower part of it isn’t as tight.’ 

Crowley laughed even harder with that. Anathema returned to Newt before he realised she wasn’t there with him. Crowley turned around to say something to Aziraphale, but he had already disappeared in a quest to find the cake. Instead, Crowley found Pepper, dressed as Wonder Woman, looking at her.

‘Why are you dressed as Peter Pan?’ Crowley narrowed her eyes. Adam appeared suddenly, an apologetic look on his face.

‘She actually know you’re dressed as Poison Ivy; don’t mind her. She actually likes the character.’ To this, Pepper smiled devilishly and went away.

Crowley decided to forgive her. She could survive a bad joke; Crowley knew perfectly well she looked stunning that night.

They spent the rest of the party laughing and eating cake. Adam showed them the new tricks he had taught Dog to do. There even was a Costume Contest, in which Newton won.

When Crowley and Aziraphale finally returned to their cottage, Aziraphale kissed Crowley. When they separated, Aziraphale smiled and said, ‘It wasn’t so bad dressing up like this. Maybe we could do this again for Halloween.’ And Crowley beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagined Aziraphale in something like this: https://aminoapps.com/c/cosplay/page/blog/genderbend-harley-quinn/pDUQ_uRMYRVrpdpwoeKGX55EX4LPGN  
Crowley: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poison_Ivy_(character)


	25. Lovely petals of reciprocated affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 25: Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written this while listening to ABBA. This doesn't matter at all but I just wanted you all to know this. And by the way, S.O.S. is the perfect song for them in the gazebo scene. (And I can totally see Aziraphale dancing around the bookshop to Gimme, gimme, gimme).

A couple of weeks had passed since the Apocanope. Crowley and Aziraphale had spent a lot of time together; they had dinned in several little restaurants that Aziraphale loved; they had visited the museums both of them liked but without all the ‘hiding from their bosses’ business, and a long etcetera.

It had been wonderful. Crowley was floating in a cloud of happiness; Aziraphale had finally come to terms with them being friends, and had stopped talking about different sides. They were on their own side. Crowley wanted more than just friendship, of course; but he was happy to accept whatever relationship Aziraphale could offer him; the fact that he now acknowledged they were friends was already a huge step for him.

But Crowley had noticed something weird in Aziraphale’s behaviour lately.

The second time they went to the Ritz after the events of the Almost-End-Of-Everything was when all started. Crowley had driven to Aziraphale’s bookshop to pick him up. The moment he arrived, he saw that the angel had been waiting for him outside of the bookshop. He stopped the car and opened the passenger’s door from inside; Aziraphale entered and closed the door, wiggling a bit in the way he did when he was happy. Crowley smiled at him as greeting, and that was when he noticed.

Aziraphale had a flower in his breast pocket.

First of all, Crowley was fairly sure he didn’t have a breast pocket before, and he couldn’t believe that Aziraphale had modified his clothes like that. And why a flower? It looked like a rosebud moss. Beautiful flower, honestly. Crowley shook away his confusion and began to drive towards the Ritz. He couldn’t criticize Aziraphale’s choice of clothes; he had already done that during centuries, and he really didn’t want to destroy the angel’s good mood. He wanted things to go as good as possible, and the change was really too small. Yeah, the best decision was to not say anything. And it was cute; he had nothing bad to say about it either.

When Crowley arrived at his flat after dinner, he found the rosebud on his table. The angel must had miracled it there, but for the love of the Antichrist he couldn’t think with what intentions. Maybe the angel wanted to contribute in some way to Crowley’s plant collection and this was his way to demonstrate it. Crowley shrugged and pushed it away from his mind. He miracled a book with thick paper and pressed the flower between its pages, believing that the flower would never wither (so the flower obeyed).

But it hadn’t been the only time it happened. Every time they met, Aziraphale showed up with a different flower in his pocket and a light in his eyes that Crowley didn’t recognize. And every single time, when he arrived home, he would find the flower waiting for him on the table.

This was confusing Crowley more and more. He didn’t know if he had to address it in some way, or it was just some silly thing the angel did without any hidden meaning. Crowley could practically feel his tongue burning with questions, but he just couldn’t ask. What if it really was a meaningless thing and the angel made fun of him for thinking otherwise? Maybe it was just the way the angel showed his affection towards him, his way of appreciating him as a friend. _Yes, that must be it, and nothing more_, Crowley thought while nodding to himself. And even more; the angel, not once, had mentioned anything about the appearing flowers, so it was sure that it wasn’t really important.

Crowley, eventually, got used to it. He even looked forward to see what flower Aziraphale was going to wear next. He had loved the jonquils, the gloxinias, the gardenia and the red tulip. He sometimes wondered how Aziraphale determined which flower he was going to wear next. Was it at random, or he had a method of decision? Something like the weather, maybe? Nah, it probably was something the angel had read in some book and had liked. Probably his favourite character did that and he liked the idea. It wouldn’t be the first time he took ideas from books; he still remembered when Aziraphale had abused the endearment ‘old sport’ because of The Great Gatsby.

One day the situation blew on his face. They were in the bookshop, and Crowley was playing with his phone, his back on the floor, and his legs lying on the sofa in front of him. Aziraphale was walking around the bookshop, ordering his books (if you could call it ordering). Suddenly, Crowley felt something on his forehead. He frowned, and took it to inspect it. It was an extremely beautiful ambrosia, with dew on its petals. He felt how Aziraphale sat down on the sofa, next to his legs. He was looking at him, as if waiting something.

Crowley, with difficulty (he tried to do it as gracefully as he could) he stood up and sat down next to Aziraphale. He pocketed his phone, and looked again at the flower he had in his hands.

‘Thanks, it’s beautiful.’ He didn’t know what else to say. Aziraphale had never hanged him a flower directly. All the questions that had been growing in his mind the past days were torturing him now. Should he say something?

Before he could ask, Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed. He opened them again and took Crowley’s hand, the one with the flower, between his own.

‘Crowley, my dear. Haven’t you been receiving my flowers?’

Crowley was staring at their hands, the way they were touching. He felt his ears burning.

‘Eh? Of course. I love them, really. I’ve saved every single one.’

Aziraphale made a tiny smile. ‘Do you know anything about flower language?’

Crowley finally looked at him, his confusion returning. ‘I know that I invented it. It’s always funny how a new form of communication creates confusion.’

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, looking at him like he was waiting for him to realize something.

And he did.

‘Oh.’ Crowley swallowed. ‘You’re trying to tell me something.’ It wasn’t a question.

The thing is, obviously Crowley had no idea what any of the flowers meant. When he had invented their meaning, he had bullshitted his way through all of it.

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand (he felt strangely unprotected without Aziraphale’s hands) and stood up, looking for something. He found it on top of his desk, and handed it to Crowley. It was a tiny book, and it was quite old. Crowley put the flower on his lap, and opened the book. It was a book about the language of flowers. He immediately searched for the ambrosia, with Aziraphale looking at him patiently. He found it. His face reddened suddenly.

Aziraphale laughed and made Crowley to stand up. He took the flower from when it had fallen, and he put it behind Crowley’s ear. The poor demon was still in shock, so when Aziraphale hugged him, the book fell from his hands. He felt like he was burning more than when he had stepped in Hellfire.

Aziraphale’s arms were surrounding his shoulders, and their cheeks were touching. Crowley’s hands were frozen, but when he realized this, he clutched Aziraphale’s back shyly. Aziraphale moved his face and kissed his cheek. He separated a bit, and they looked at each other’s eyes. Aziraphale, slowly, kissed the left corner of his lips. He looked at him again, his eyes shining, and he leaned towards Crowley’s right side of the face. Aziraphale kissed him again, just below his jaw. Crowley swallowed, a bit nervous. He couldn’t believe that this was finally happening. Even though he wasn’t an angel anymore, he could practically feel the angel’s love through his lips. Then, Aziraphale cupped his face between his hands, and slowly inclined Crowley’s face towards him. But he didn’t kiss him on the lips, not yet; he kissed his skin tenderly below Crowley’s left eyebrow, on his eyelid, when he closed his eyes.

Aziraphale took distance again. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. He took his hands away from Crowley’s face, putting a finger on the left corner of his own lips, and raised his eyebrows, waiting. Crowley looked at him with his heart softly aching.

He kissed his angel the same way he had kissed him. He did it slowly, pouring all the love he was feeling, the love he had felt and buried for six thousand years into the way his lips caressed Aziraphale’s skin. He was still burning, but the feeling was sweet. It was like falling, but upwards. When he finished, he put his hands on the angel’s face, just like he had done earlier.

And finally he kissed him on the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meaning of the flowers Aziraphale wore are these:  
AMBROSIA - Your Love is Reciprocated (the one he handed Crowley)  
ROSEBUD Moss - Confessions of Love (the first one he wore)  
JONQUIL - Love Me; Affection Returned; Desire; Sympathy; Desire for Affection Returned  
GLOXINIA - Love at First Sight  
GARDENIA - You're Lovely: Secret Love  
TULIP Red - Believe Me; Declaration of Love
> 
> The kissing scene is from my favourite film, Amélie. This is the scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkLkim0HYME


	26. A Letter to Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 26: Wedding
> 
> I know it's hard enough to love me  
But I woke up in a safe house singing, "Honey, let's get married"  
-Mitski, 'Let's get married'

_Angel, let’s get married._

_Let’s get married in broad daylight, the sun smiling upon us. Let’s return to garden, just once, for the last time, to say promises between trees bearing fruit. Let’s do it, while smelling flowers, with our friends around us. Let’s hold hands while we show eternal love to each other. Teach me how to walk towards you, crossing a church if you want (I don’t mind getting my feet burned for you, you know that). We can exchange rings, and I’ll kiss yours when it’s already in your finger, and I hope you’ll do it with mine. I stole a ring for you hundreds of years ago, it’s getting lonely._

_Let’s get married in the night, under the stars. I created them, you know? But I prefer your light; it’s so much gentler, closer, and I like how it burns me. It would suit you so damn well, my love, to get married to you in the night; the dark favours that light of yours. I guess that’s why you’re near me, why you look so beautiful in my eyes. We can have a wedding at the beach, in front the sea, staring at the moon. The moon would cast her light towards you. You are the moon in my night; you even have her colour in your hair._

_We can get married in whispers. We don’t need anyone else present; just us, just our love and our wine; and we can dance with our fingers intertwined. I’ll tell you my oaths, my favourite parts of you, directly to your ear, our cheeks touching. And I will listen to yours. Oh, how I ache to dance with you! Maybe angels don’t dance, but you are made of grace, my love; I dream to see you move with music filling your bookshop. Your precious books can be our witnesses, and for a while, all their words will be about our love and our story. There would be no tragedies this time, and I will make them a success; our happiness will triumph just like Hamlet did. I’ll make sure of it._

_We can run away together. But not definitely, I promise you (there’s so many things I want to promise you), only for our honeymoon. We can see Alpha Centauri if you like. We can bask at their light, and I’ll kiss your eyelids, so you’ll have to close your eyes (that way, the stars won’t be jealous of how they shine). We can travel and see everything you want, everything I want too. We can get married in every country, following every tradition and culture._

_There are not enough ways to get married to you. And I won’t ever get tired of it._

_I hope you say yes. Please do so, please let eternity be gentle._

_I'm already yours._

_-Crowley_

Aziraphale finishes reading. He had found a letter addressed to him in a handwriting he knew very well from many secret notes during millennia. He clutches it near his heart. He breathes one, two times, to calm himself. Carefully, he leaves the letter between the pages of a book. He opens a drawer, and takes out a little box. He pockets it, and runs towards the door.

Someone was waiting for him. He had been waiting for too many years, and Aziraphale needed to put an end to it.


	27. The wonders of scaring people and plastic trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 27: celebration

Aziraphale had definitely read too many books. It had started to affect his mind.

One day he had decided that they should celebrate the way humans did. At the beginning, they had participated in the celebrations different cultures had to offer when they travelled around the world, but at some point in history they had stopped; it had gotten boring. But now, for some reason, Aziraphale wanted to restart partaking in them. Since the events of the Not-End-Of-The-World, he wanted to know the humans better.

Luckily, the first celebration they tried was Halloween, and oh- Crowley _loved _it. It was perfectly spooky. When Aziraphale had explained to him what it was all about (he had done so in a cautious way, knowing what would happen) he had smiled like a mad man. He was surprised he hadn’t invented the celebration himself (maybe he did when he was drunk. Who knew).

He had really enjoyed scaring that human in the hospital, and now he had the perfect excuse to scare all the humans he wanted. And instead of waiting until night to do so them, he could just start the very morning. Wasn’t it God that said something about blessing morning people? Whatever; why wait until night to have fun?

So, to Aziraphale’s consternation, Crowley spent THE ENTIRE DAY scaring people. He put on a black robe (it had been tartan before he put it on) and went out. Aziraphale watched him go from the front door, wearing a Halloween sweater that was really cosy and had some skulls on it. He sipped from his hot chocolate, sighing. He knew that Crowley would get nuts when he heard about Halloween, but he hadn’t expected him to start doing mischief so early. He sighed again and entered their cottage. He miracled some candy, and he separated the spicy ones that Crowley liked from the others. He took a book and began to read, knowing that the demon wasn’t going to come home in several hours.

Crowley came up with a method to scare people. It wasn’t the most original one, but it sure worked; sometimes simple was best. He had the robe’s hood hiding his face, and he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. There were some kids that were already in costumes, but the majority of people were wearing normal everyday-life clothes. He approached them, silently, and he took his hood off, transforming his face into a snake-like one; the screams of people were like music to his ears. Some police men pursued him, but their clothes miraculously changed into snake costumes, and they had to go home to change, ashamed.

When he eventually returned home (the town was too small for his tastes. He had scared several people twice and some teenagers had tried to take photos of him. So rude, they didn’t even tag him) he found Aziraphale sitting on the sofa reading. He surely hadn’t move all day long. Crowley took his robe off and launched himself to the sofa next to the angel, with the spicy candy in his hands.

That night, Aziraphale spent it miracling candy like a factory; Crowley’s adventure had attracted too many kids that wanted to see the Weird Snake Man. Crowley, of course, transformed in front of every single one upon request. Halloween was incredible; absolutely no one thought his costume was too realistic and that he didn’t look like he was wearing contact lenses. Maybe they didn’t care enough.

Then it was Aziraphale’s turn to have a good time. It was Christmas. Crowley had to go through the ordeal of decorating their home with Christmas decorations. There were lights, and weird giant socks, and a plastic tree. Worst of all, Aziraphale wanted them to decorate everything the human way, so he had to try not to get discorporated while putting lights around the tree.

‘Come on, angel, this is ridiculous. _Please_, I beg of you, let me miracle them.’ Crowley was standing on top of a stool, and Aziraphale was steadying it with his hands (trying not to stare too much at Crowley’s ass, unsuccessfully).

And obviously, Crowley fell.

Luckily, Aziraphale caught him, the stool crashing into the ground.

The picture you need to have in your mind right now is this:

Crowley, his hair dishevelled and longer than usual, with the worst suit to exist in history; was being carried like a princess by Aziraphale, who was much stronger than it appeared at first sight. The angel was wearing a Christmas tartan sweater, and his face was a bit red.

Crowley’s face went as red as his suit. ‘Ngk’, he said. Aziraphale looked at him, kissed his cheek (he couldn’t resist it when Crowley looked embarrassed; the demon made another noise that sounded like ‘Ornfck’) and put him on the ground. He looked the demon up and down, making sure that he wasn’t injured. He felt a bit guilty; it had been his idea to put the lights the human way, and probably the stool had fallen because he had been too distracted.

He saw that the demon was perfectly fine, just a bit flustered. He made a mental note to carry Crowley that way another time; his reaction had been too good.

‘Okay, I can’t resist it no more. Care to explain to me WHAT are you wearing?’ Aziraphale had been trying to ignore the way the demon looked that night; he was sure that Crowley was plotting something and he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making him ask. But even Aziraphale had his limits; it was best to put an end to it.

Crowley, regaining his dignity, made a swirl, and stroke a pose. ‘Do you like it?’

Aziraphale looked at him in the eyes. ‘It’s abominable.’

Crowley grinned teasingly. ‘But it’s tartan! Isn’t it stylish?’

Aziraphale had forgotten how to blink. He looked kind of scary, maybe from a human perspective, but Crowley was well versed in the arts of not blinking, so it didn’t affect him. At all.

‘The colours are horrible. I don’t know how you found this; I didn’t think it was possible for tartan to be this unpleasant.’ Aziraphale sighed. ‘I guess that only you could invent it.’

Crowley looked too proud for his own good. ‘These are the colours of Christmas! How could you say that! I’m channelling the true Christmas Spirit.’

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, making all the decorations that hadn’t been placed yet to decorate the house. Crowley was happier by the minute; Aziraphale tried to put an end to his mockery.

‘Come on, let’s relax a little. And please, for the love of whatever you want, get that thing off. My stomach is getting sick by the minute I have to stare at your suit.’

Crowley put his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. ‘Would you like to do the honours?’

Aziraphale smiled. So that had been Crowley’s plan all along.

He knew it; human celebrations were the best. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was searching for an ugly Christmas tartan sweater for Aziraphale when I saw this abominable creation and I felt obliged to make Crowley wear it. My original idea was for Crowley to wear Aziraphale's Halloween sweater, but this suit is. I have no words. I am so sorry: https://wanelo.co/p/33304345/pre-order-the-tiny-tim-ugly-christmas-sweater-red-tartan-plaid-dress-suit-fall-2016-delivery  
This is Aziraphale's Halloween sweater: https://www.halloweencostumes.com/black-and-white-adult-skeleton-ugly-halloween-sweater.html


	28. Family is where your angel is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 28: family  
Oh, don't leave me here alone  
Don't tell me that we've grown  
For having loved a little while  
Oh, I don't want to be alone  
I want to find a home  
And I want to share it with you  
-The Oh Hellos, "Hello my Old Heart"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not feeling really well today, I'm having a Bad Episode (TM), so today's chapter is a bit short and kind of bad. I thought about not writing today, but I'm already a day behind in the list and I would feel even worse if I didn't publish anything today so. yeah

Crowley has already forgotten what the meaning of family is.

It was to be expected. He had been cast out of Heaven and the rest of the angels, and they had been the closest thing to a family he would ever experience. And they had been cold and distant; all they cared about was duty and keep up appearances. Hell was pretty much the same; they only wanted to know about how well (or bad really) he was doing up on Earth. Relationships were something that had been invented by humans, Crowley realised, after some thought.

It was strange. He shouldn’t really care about such a concept. Maybe, because of all the years he had spent on Earth, humans had affected him as much as he tried to affect them.

Family wasn’t something that existed in neither Heaven nor Hell, but he found himself in need of it. He craved the feel of pertaining somewhere? Have something to return home to? He wasn’t even sure what family was.

He yearned for a warm welcome when entering his flat. If he was being honest, he kind of hated his flat. It was dark and empty, and too different from a bookshop. He still lived in these conditions because he knew it was what was expected of him. He didn’t want to be honest and openly wish for something different. That’s why he only went to his flat to keep an eye on his plants, and he preferred to invite the angel to anywhere but there.

\--------

Warlock was 6. He was in the middle of that part of his life where he went form a hyper fixation to another, annoying the hell out of everyone (he was a good Antichrist after all). Nanny Ashtoreth had patience with it, knowing that it was good for the kid to cultivate some imagination so he could be more resourceful when bringing destruction to the world (this was an excuse, of course; Nanny was soft for the kid but really dishonest with herself).

Brother Francis was sitting on a bench in the garden, looking at a butterfly. He saw Nanny and the kid coming towards him. Warlock was faster than her; he was running towards him with an excited smile. Brother Francis knew that face; the boy was about to show him something.

‘Brother Francis! Come watch a movie with me!’

He stood up and took the hand that the boy was extending. Nanny gave him an apologetic smile; the movie was surely going to be the next thing that the boy was going to obsess with. Brother Francis smiled at her in return; the boy was being really cute wanting to watch it with both of them for the first time.

They sat on the sofa in the living room, and Warlock put on the movie. It was called _Lilo and_ _Stitch_. It was a Disney movie; Warlock had been watching all of them for quite a while already. Nanny liked them; they normally had a good ending, and for her secret plans of stopping the End of the World it sure was good inspiration for the Antichrist. She knew Brother Francis would think the same. Nanny thought that it was surprising that he had never watched one before; they were his style of story.

When the movie began, Nanny felt a knot where her heart should be.

It was about family. And adopting a strange creature, accepting him, loving his weird and evil nature.

She felt some tears building up behind her dark glasses. It was so stupid; it was just an animated movie. Yes, sure; she had been feeling misplaced all her life and the movie had touched a sensible nerve, but what is really an excuse to _cry _about it?

She looked at Warlock. His eyes were shining, and he had his mouth slightly opened, completely transfixed with the screen. Nanny took a mental note to buy him a Stitch plushie.

She looked at Brother Francis, and what she saw stole her breath. He was looking at her, a gentle expression in his eyes. They crossed eyes, and they stared at each other for an instant, something moving between them. Brother Francis looked away, his cheeks a bit red.

An emotion invaded Nanny’s soul. She felt warm, like gravity had suddenly stopped working for a moment.

She took Warlock’s hand, and brushed her free hand with Brother’s.

_This is it. This is what family feels like, _she thought.


	29. Shut up, will you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 29: height difference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first thing I thought about when I read the prompt was like "there's a height difference between Heaven and Hell lol" but I decided to not be that cruel.

There’s something in common between ethereal/occult beings and humans: they don’t get to choose they corporeal form. They are all assigned to it. Later on, in life, some may choose to change aspects of it, but the overall characteristics don’t change.

Well, unless you get discorporated.

But this is not about discorporation.

This is about Aziraphale being shorter than Crowley.

The difference isn’t too much, really, but it sure is enough to be worth mentioning.

‘This is one of the few times you could say Hell is above Heaven’ Crowley said one day about the topic.

Aziraphale didn’t talk to him for a couple of days after that.

Sometimes, Crowley would hand him things that are in a high position just to annoy him. The majority of the times Aziraphale didn’t even need someone to help him get it, and even if he did, he could just miracle it; Crowley just enjoyed being that petty.

It really got in Aziraphale’s nerves. Specially the way the demon smirked while handing him stuff.

He could always wear high heels, yes; but it wasn’t quite the same, and it would do nothing to his hurt pride to see the demon laugh at him that he’s wearing high heels just to feel taller than him.

One day, when Crowley was on tiptoe, trying to get some teabags for Aziraphale from a high shelf, Aziraphale saw his opportunity. He walked towards him quickly and he sneaked under him, between the kitchen sink and Crowley’s inclined body, facing him. Before the demon could ask what he was doing, Aziraphale grabbed his scarf-like thing that he had around the neck (seriously, what is that? The angel was incapable of understanding modern clothes) and pulled. Crowley fell towards him, without the time to fight back, and found himself being kissed by Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled when he felt the demon in shock. It was indeed a good method to make the demon shut up.


	30. Tell me, O Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 30: pining

Crowley is pretty sure that he invented the concept of pining.

He’s been pining for six thousand years. It’s only natural to think that it was him who came up with it. Maybe some humans looked at him watching lovingly at the angel and they were like “oh, that’s an Emotion”. It sure felt that way, when Crowley listened to music that evoked perfectly well what pining felt like.

And he listened to a ton of that.

He had even inspired some of it directly, knowing for sure that Aziraphale would never listen to it. It was his little escapade; he could pour himself, all the things he felt into music, without fear of repercussion, of going to fast, of alerting Hell of what he felt. There was no demon who care much about music per se; only if some musician needed to be tempted.

He had gone as far as to learn how to play various instruments. He knew how sweat rolled on one’s forehead when standing in front of a crowd, lights blinding him, music and screams deafening him; his fingers aching with beautiful pain, his body moving on his own. He had felt like he had a soul again.

He remembers that his eyes would always, always search for pristine, moon-like hair, between the crowd; but he was never there.

Crowley thinks it’s that better that way. He would have been too distracted if he was there. Or worse; maybe the exhilaration of the concert would have made him descend from the stage and kiss his angelic soul out of him. Bad idea.

At some point he stopped playing in concerts. He was scared he would get too famous and the angel would know about it.

But he still liked to sing sometimes; little, shy hums when his mind wandered away. He did it without thinking about it, and he shut up when he realized what he was doing. He had to stop himself of singing every time the angel smiled.

Six thousand years of pining couldn’t be good to one’s mind.

He was probably going mad; sometimes he thought that the angel felt the same way about him.

But it was impossible. He couldn’t picture Aziraphale going mad of love. He loved every creature, sure; but passion? Could he feel this emotion, burning him, keeping him awake at night? Sure, he was passionate about food and books, but it wasn’t with the kind of sentiment Crowley played the guitar; like he was trying to murder all things with sound (him being the first victim).

It was impossible, because the angel didn’t knew what Falling into despair was. He didn’t knew what thoughts and emotions could do; the sin of it all, the way it stuck into one’s mind absorbing all the good things.

Not everything was bad, of course. He could still be with him, as a friend. He could be by his side, and make him laugh, and take him to restaurants, and concerts. Maybe he couldn’t play anymore, but he liked this side of concerts, _their own side, _ being on the ground with him and see how the reflection of the lights played in his eyes. How he turned around to face him, and his eyes would hold unto that light, as if the angel had absorbed them and now were part of him. And he used those lighten up eyes to see Crowley. To look at him in the eyes and lighten up _his _soul, his dark and insecure mind. To bring him home, with him.

And sometimes, if the day was good and Crowley felt particularly brave, he would hold that face between his hands, and kiss his eyelids. And he would love how the angel opened up his eyes again, with a new light in them, and a confused look in his face, and smile at him. Crowley would feel music scratching his way up his throat, threatening to go out, sing everything to the world, and confess his deepest secret. And Crowley would choke -_hide it away, no one must listen to it- _because he can’t admit what he sees in Aziraphale’s eyes. He has to close his own, be blind, because he can’t hope. He can’t feed his dreams and imagination, he can’t give them a name and torture himself further. 

He is only brave for that period of time, when music surrounds them in a familiar way, his fingers aching, always in pain. And then everything would run out; he would feel fear again. He would turn away, hide away, and don’t look back. He would hide his traitorous hands, he would concentrate in the music again because he can’t let the Song escape his lips.

Tell me, O Muse, about the music that dies in the lover’s mind, choking in light that he doesn’t deserve.

May the light be gentle. May the light be truly there when the demon’s eyes wander to the angel’s once again.

May the Song be free and be met with returning love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kind of obsessed with the concept of Crowley knowing how to play and sing.


	31. We said, ‘I’m in love with you’, and we were finally free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 31: There was only one bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing this I felt as if it was connected to a chapter I’ve written before, chapter 26. I recommend reading (or rereading) it before this one <3

_I'm nobody_   
_I'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint_   
_I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave_   
_But I want you to know that I've had no love like your love_

_From nobody_

Crowley had spent so many years watching him.

He knew all about his emotions, his tastes. About his favourite weather condition, his favourite bench in the park, his favourite ABBA song. He knew just exactly what temperature Aziraphale liked his choco. He knew where he usually left his white gloves (he always forgot them in the kitchen). 

He knew all about him. He could even draw him with his eyes closed - _fingers demonically black, coal on them; paper in an angelic white - _and sometimes he did. He would hide this drawings, though; he was too embarrassed to show them. And he liked to hide them, in a way; it was like the love he had felt for the angel: they could be hidden away for thousand of years, and they would continue to grow. 

He remembered as it was yesterday all the times the angel had smiled at him when he did miracles. It was worth ending his career as demon, just to see Aziraphale smile like that again. 

But there was one memory that lived in his heart in a special way. There was one particular smile, one particular look in his eyes, that he cherished in his mind, like a fragile bird between his hands. It was soft as feathers, sightly shaking too. 

_There had been only one bed then._

Aziraphale had read an infinite amount of words; in books, scrolls, and in all the ways the humans had tried to express themselves. But he had never read an impression as beautiful as the colour the sunlight took when passing through Crowley’s hair. There was no story as breathtaking as Crowley’s laughter, or none as ridiculous as the way he sat on a sofa. He had never felt as scared as when in a car with him.

And he had never felt as alive, never quite felt the blood rushing through his veins before, as the moment he had seen his face the night the world hadn’t ended.

_There had only been one bed separating them._

——————-

Aziraphale had never let himself split up. He had never confessed to Crowley how he had really felt in thousands of years. He felt extremely bad about how he had lied and hurt him so effectively. He was an angel, for God’s sake; how could he even be able to do that? How could he hide the fact that he was in love? Wasn’t love what Heaven was all about?

Love was what he felt that night.

Love was what he had felt during thousands of years.

Love was what they had promised each other.

They whispered the words on that fateful night. They had done so during all the days, months and years that had succeeded that night. There had only been only one bed every time. They had met there between the sheets; they had collided like planets, one unto the other, finally meeting without caring about the sky’s opinion. 

They had shouted the words too, once; they had been drunk as the night they shared a bed for the first time; as drunk as the day they found out the end of the world was coming in 11 years. They were in the Bentley, windows rolled down, and the lights of the city blinded Aziraphale as they passed them. They had shouted and laughed; he remembered sweetly how Crowley had shouted to the lyrics of _Love of my Life_ by Queen, and he still felt his eyes wet at the way Crowley had looked at him while singing, like he had composed the song for him. And Aziraphale had shouted with him, for all the years he hadn’t be able to express himself, to even whisper his love to him. He had shouted and sang with all his might because, _yes, me too, me too my love. _He was finally free to sing.

_I couldn't utter my love when it counted_  
Ah, but I'm singing like a bird, 'bout it now  
I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted  
Ah, but I'm singing like a bird, 'bout it now

They had said the words with friends surrounding them, holding each other’s hands. Hands that now showed in glowing gold and elegant silver how they felt to the world. 

_There had also been one bed that night._

The thing is, this is how their story ends. Their story of pining, circling each other, wishing to see the same emotion in the other’s gestures. Their story of flirting, and falling in love time and time again with every smile, cry and every time they bickered. This is how it ends. This is how they stop sleeping in different beds.

They have their own bed now.

This is how another story begins. It’s really similar to the previous one, some may say, and it would be accurate. The important part is that their love has been discovered and reciprocated. There was no need for hiding now. Another story could begin, they could leave the garden together, once again. With their hands linked, facing eternity together.

There was only one bed. And there was going to be only one for all the years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so emotional right now. I can’t believe this ended. I’ve been having a rough month and writing this helped me a lot. I could focus on something, distract myself, and share what I’ve been feeling in a way with this. Thanks for all those who read until the end 💖   
I have a couple ideas for other fics, but I will rest a bit before writing again. This was really fun but exhausting too.   
Btw, I started a Wattpad account! You can find me as DreamsOfMorpheus. You can also find me on Tumblr as cherryandbelgianchocolate  
Thanks again!


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